Z\S1 







ro 









0^ 



1 1 « 









^■~ .*' 



- .0'' 



a^'- 



,-.^^ 






a\ 


























^\ 









THE ANALYST 



A COLLECTION OF 



iEii©®iiii3a]ii3&jrii®ws iPiiiPiiJBSo 



His lo^irning savors jgbt the school-like gloss, 
That most consists in e<"h ling words and terms, 
Nor any long 6s,far-fetGh'd circumstance 
"Wrap'd in the curious generalities of arts; 
But a direct and analytic sum 
Of all the worth and first effects of arts." 

Ben Jonson— THb Poetaster. 



NE\ir YORK « 

WILEY & PUTNAM. 
BEN J. G. TREVETT, 28 ANN STREET. 

1840. 



PS XI Si 



Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1839, in the Clerk' 
Office of the District Court for the Southern District of New-York. 



7 t 



[Printed at the Xylographic Press, 28 Ann -St.] 



/S7 



H© HAAS'S ©Mo 



TO 
MY NEAR FRIEND, 

EVERT A. DUYCKINCK, Esa. 

THIS VOLUME 
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED, 

BY THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 



Preface, 5 

No. 1, — The Ostentatious Man, 9 

" 2. — Inquisitiveness, ------- 17 

" 3. — La Bruyere, - - 24 

" 4. — Literary Eg-otism, ------ 33 

" 5. — Boasters and Bullies, 40 

" 6.— Dull People, 47 

" 7.— Walking- the Streets — A Sketch, - - - 59 

" 8.— The Housewife— A Character, - - - - G3 

" 9. — Reading- and Study, - - ^ - - - 66 

" 10.— On the Value of Metaphysical Studies, - - 71 

" 11.— Male Scolds, 75 

" 12.— The Sexton— A Chara:ier, . - - - 80 

" 13.— The Ling:uist, 82 

" 14.— The Italian Opera, - - - - - - 87 

" 15. — The Modern Politician — A Character, - - 92 

" 16.— The Familiar Philosophy, ----- 95 

" 17.— The Old English Comedy, - - - - 99 

" 18.— The Political Writings of Thomas Paine, - - 104 

" 19.— The Old Songs and Ballads, - - - - 110 

" 20. — Suggestions for the Reflective, - - - - 116 

" 21.— Thoughts on Bulwer, 121 

" 22. — Critics and Criticism, 126 

'' 23.— Cheap Pleasures, 129 

'■' 24. — Modern Philosophies, 137 



IV. CONTENTS. 

" 25.— On the Vices of the Clerical Character, - - 143 

" 26.— On Preaching-- /^ a Letter, - - - - 147 

" 27.— Sunday in the City— ^ Sketch, ... 153 

" 28. — On the Study of History — In a Letter, - - 157 

" 29. — Q,ueries Regarding Natural Affection, - - 1G5 
" 30. — Principle and Feeling — A Philosophical Rhapsody, 167 

" 31. — Sympathy— ii Fragment, . . . . 173 



PREFACE 



Charitble reader, a word in thy ear ! We have 
somewhat to say to thee before thou proceed further. 
Partly by way of apology, partly for the sake of expla- 
nation. Most of the papers in this volume have been 
formerly printed ; for we thought it was paying the 
public more respect to reprint what had been received 
with commendation before, than to thrust an entirely 
crude and raw production into their faces. 

We have somewhat improved these same, and added 
to their number by a few new ones. For this repeti- 
tion we apologise not, for if the pieces were not worth 
reprinting, they did not deserve printing in the first 
instance. But we would seek to secure the attention 
of those whose good opinion is worth having. We 
trust the book will meet with no rebuffs from them on 
account of its miscellaneous character. Variety has 



PREFACE. 



been our object. The graver papers we have endeav^ 
oured to relieve by Hghter pieces, and to soften down 
direct morality into a matter of entertainment. We 
fear however that the didactic essays may be esteemed 
frivolous by the philosopher, and dull by the general 
reader, and that our lighter attempts may be objected 
to as carrying, like a sloop of war, too much cannon. 
'Tis impossible to please all readers. 

We hardly hope to conciliate the fastidious. All we 
ask is, judge with hberality and fairness on the merits 
of the case, and we will abide by your decision. If 
you should chance to encourage us by your honest 
approval, we shall very likely do ourselves the honor 
to take you by the hand a second time for a friendly 
walk in the same ways. 

As to the matter of explanation, we would beg the 
reader to revive in his memory the old-fashioned essay 
and character— writing. The present style of writing 
characters by Hunt, Jerrold, &c., in London, is quite 
unlike the manner of Overbury, Fuller, Earle and De 
Foe. These were our models. In our satirical sketches 
\^e aim at general truth, illustrated by particular in- 



PREFACE. 



stances. If therefore any person or persons should 
conceive themselves pointed at, we can only say that 
very likely v^^e are not even acquainted with their 
names and faces \ but if we are and have spoken the 
truth, we surely should not be the objects of their cen- 
sure. Our attempts in this way have been executed 
in a spirit of liberality and good will,, and without the 
least tincture of malice. 

With these few remarks, we commit our volume to 
the eye of the candid reader. 

New-York, October 14th, 1839. 



THE ANALYST. 



NO. r. 
THE OSTENTATIOUS MAN. 

A CHARACTER. 

A FEW words prefixed to the character, which forms 
the subject of the present paper may not be amiss. In 
general, we will begin and terminate all our charac- 
teristical sketclies with some brief reflections, in order 
to give our readers a little philosophy as well as satiri- 
cal description. We can pretend to little originality 
in probing the ksser vices of character and manners^ 
but we may occasionally throw out a remark w^orth 
thinking over. At all events it is no useless task to 
revive old truths, for the very neglect into which they 
have fallen almost seems to make an announcement 
of them appear like a discovery. ' Truth hes buried 
in the human mind by the side of error.' A true phi- 
losophy then would arouse the former, lest she fall into 
a fatal trance of lasting ignorance. There is no com- 
moner trait of mankind than a love of show, a de- 
sire of display. It is an original passion of the hu- 
man heart, for it is found among the most savage na- 
tions,, as w^ell as the most refined communities ; and 



10 THE OSTENTATIOUS MAI«^. 

impels each with equal strength, though in different 
ways. The baubles, the paint, the quaint ornaments 
of the Indian, are just as sure an evidence of this, as 
the more cultivated elegance of the civihzed man. It 
is manifested as well in a desire for personal ornament, 
as in the competition of intellectual power. This pas- 
sion impels the most modest, urges on with a stronger 
energy the more confident, and actually bloats up ta 
an unnatural size the self love of the naturally con- 
ceited and presuming. It is indeed quite magical in it& 
effects. It was the axiom of a forgotten poet, that '•' the 
shows of things are greater than themselves." We 
might stop here and speculate on the truth of this, des- 
pite its paradoxical look. We have a different purpose 
however. The great mass of men regard nothing 
more than the external part of things. They seldom 
penetrate deeper. How much oftener are the wise 
even pleased with some trivial accomplishment, thaft 
with a solid excellence ! 

The extreme desire of making a great noise, is indi- 
cative of a contracted mind, which can see nothing 
worthy of admiration in the world but itself It preys 
upon itself, and must itself furnish food for its own ap- 
plause. It is enraptured with the display of the inci- 
dental goods of fortune, and rarely with the intrinsic 
merits treasured up in nature. Fine furniture^ a splen- 
did table, dashing liveries and equipage, smart, foppish 
servants, a grand house, beautiful grounds, an immense 
estate, coffers filled to the brim, compose its retinue of 
virtues. A desire to possess these, and be notorious oxk 



THE OSTENTATIOUS MAN. H 

that account, is much more frequent than hterary or 
oratorical vanity. The world, indeed, is full enough 
of instances of the prevalence of the latter and nobler 
species of ostentation. Although, unfortunately, it is a 
great injury to the interests of letters, that ignorant 
men, or mere smatterers, without original or acquired 
ability, should be inflamed by the reputation of great 
authors to turn their faculties in a direction for which 
they were never intended ; yet nothiag ean depress 
this race, but the most pointed pen of the satirist steeped 
in ridicule and sarcasm. So potent is the charm of 
this feeling, that it makes the most judicious in their 
sentiment&j and least singular in their conduct, at times 
really ridiculous. This can only be ascribed to the 
general ambition of mankind, who,^ even in the high- 
est stations, always desire to seem more powerful, and, 
though gifted with the most varied genius and aptest 
talents, more gifted than they are. With many, reli- 
gion would be nothing without the pomp of ceremonial, 
the grave melody of the psalmod}? and chanting, and 
the robes of the priest. The courts of law would be no 
better than an assembly filled w^ith brawlers but for th© 
judge's gravity, the lawyer's forms, the officiousness of 
officers, the pomposity of the crier, and the consterna- 
tion of the trembling, brow-beaten witness. The doc- 
tor's face often works greater cures than his physic, 
and feeling the pulse is equivalent to an hour's attend- 
ance by one of the uninitiated. The politician calcu- 
lates the effect of " the compliment extern," when he 
calls his hearers honest men, though they may be- 



12 THE OSTENTATIOUS MAN. 

every one of them arrant rogues and housebreakers. 
Thus runs the world through the whole catalogue of 
vices and follies ; only cover them with a mantle, or 
some veil or other, and they may pass for very respect- 
able virtues. Stripped of this false currency, the great- 
est heroes are little better, or rather a great deal worse, 
than footpads — the most ingenious discoverers, but 
ingenious quacks — the profoundest philosophers, the 
veriest impostors. Great villainy escapes under the 
name of high daring, while petty criminality is strung 
up on the gibbet, incarcerated for life, or exposed to an 
exile that ends only with existence. 

The vanity of show, that is, a weakness proceeding 
from a feeble mind, and therefore deserving of no 
harsher appellation, is, perhaps, the most common of 
all others. Though other weaknesses may be pretty 
equally divided amongst men, there k hardly an indi- 
vidual who is averse to exhibit himself, and every thing 
of his own, to the best advantage. I shall endeavour 
to sketch the character of this large class in an indi- 
vidual portrait, the separate traits of which are drawn 
from a variety of real characters which have fallen 
under my observation. 

The ostentatious man is one who thinks the world 
was formed as a stage for him to exhibit upon, with 
whom outward show weighs more than inward merit. 
He is continually an actor, having exchanged what 
was unadulterated in his natural character for the 
finesse and subterfuge of art. The marks by which 
to know him are manv. These are some of them. 



THE OSTENTATIOUS MAN. 13 

Coming into church after service has confimenced. with 
an important air and a heavy step, he will survey the 
whole assembly as if he were taking a lustrum of the 
population, or like a general calculating what forces 
he may bring into the field. During prayers he will 
hem and cough in a very stern and determined man- 
ner, and occasionally blow his nose in a most malicious 
style. His responses will be louder than those of the 
clerk, and he will drown the whole choir in his strain 
of melody. When the sermon is commenced, he will 
compose himself in a very critical attitude, and give 
assenting nods to those parts he happens to be pleased 
with. In other places he displays the same love of 
ostentation in a similar manner. When engaged in 
business, he will give his orders in a loud, lofty, he- 
roical tone of voice ; when he wishes to be impressive 
to an inferior, he will assume a remarkably bland and 
condescending style of treatment, (the most provoking 
of insults ;) and, perhaps, even address the favoured 
person by his Christian, or more familiarly by his 
nick-name. He will also take upon himself sometimes 
to be very humble, and confess a long catalogue of 
petty faults, over which he will sigh like the best peni- 
tent of them all, cloaking his large and real sins under 
a veil of hypocrisy and affectation. To a priest he 
will speak of his failure in attending church, and take 
himself severely to task for it. He will boast of his 
ancestor, who was very likely a great scapegrace, and 
descant largely upon the antiquity of his family. He 
is very fond of letting you know how many offices he 



14 tHE 0STE>ITATI0US MAN. 

has filled, and to what great folks he is related, whose 
secretary he was in a certain year, and what great 
cases he was retained in a few months back. He is 
a very great man in his own house, though often a 
very small character everywhere else. He talks ia 
latinized English, and rejects the simple Saxon. He 
never speaks in the house provided he be a legislator, 
but is exceedingly eloquent in the lobbies, and quite 
powerful in the coffee-houses. If you happen to meet 
him alone anywhere, he soon lets you know what he 
is, and what his pretensions are, by either calling a 
servant, perhaps his own, and giving his orders before 
your face, or else by telling the truth plump out before 
you. He has no reserve in entering a room, but al- 
ways marches immediately to the most conspicuous 
station. If he be a public speaker, he privately gives 
you to know the improvements he has made upon 
Burke and Patrick Henry. He is ever harping on 
his influence, and the respect with which he is looked 
up to. 

In appearance he is commonly a heavy-looking 
body, pursy, big-eyed, with a portentous stare ; heavy- 
browed, with a full cheek, and a consequential look 
and air, such as belongs, of right, to a constable or 
justice of the peace. His natural ambition generally 
places him in some situation where he can gratify this 
ill-judged propensity to greatness. His heart's desire 
is to be dressed in some suit of authority, how mean or 
** brief" soever it may be. He makes a good overseer 
of slaves or of a workhouse. He makes a good head 



THE OSTENTATIOUS MAN. 16 

of a college, provided he has nothing to do. He makes 
a capital bishop, and will convert the wild geese and 
turkeys, wherever he goes, into first rate " tame villatic 
fowl !" He makes a very good judge, particularly if 
he is deaf and can take naps with his eyes open. He 
is an excellent hand at all ceremonials, shows and pro- 
cessions, where his only business is to display his per- 
sonal accomplishments, maintaining a dignified gravity 
and a look of solid wisdom. 

The ostentatious man will profess a love of quiet and 
hatred of all noises, like Morose in the Epicene ; but he 
will presently let you see he does not include himself — 
for he loves to hear his own voice above all others, in 
spite of his declaration. It may be generally noticed, 
in a public meeting, that he is the most clamorous, even 
if he does nothing but shout silence and call to order. 
He is a great admirer of simplicity in others, and is the 
first to censure any thing like display or conceit on Ro- 
chefoucauld's principle, that it is our own vanity which 
makes that of others so displeasing to us. He is ac- 
customed to give fine dinners, thinking, very justly, 
that the host is the man of most importance at his own 
table ; and therefore delights to assemble the greatest 
men he can procure to eat his courses, amongst whom 
he sits the temporary patron and purveyor. " Fools 
make feasts, and wise men eat them." He sometimes 
entertains, like Abraham, angels — unawares. 

The company of this man is emphatically the most 
annoying of the small social evils. Nature, simplicity, 
freedom are utterly wanting ; and you see nothing in 
2 



16 THE OSTENTATIOUS MAN. 

his behaviour but artificial assumption of a character 
and manners not his own, and a solemn pomposityj 
less endurable by far than the silly prattle of a young 
belle. He can say, he can do, nothing, in an easy and 
unconstrained way. His society imposes a heavy tax 
upon your own feelings. You are made dull by his 
dullness, and find yourself prosing away (unless you 
fall asleep) from sympathy ; or you are reduced to keep 
a tedious and slavish silence while he is delivering him- 
self in grandiloquent periods. This causes formality 
and a forced politeness on your part. Restraint pro- 
duces constraint. Courtesy forbids you to interrupt a 
man when he is declaring to you the plan of his new 
house, or the arrangement of some old, uninteresting 
business under his own roof; but its endurance is an 
evil. 

I know of no maxim that can be deduced from all 
this, better than that truly great men are always the 
most simple minded and least pretending ; and that it 
does not become us to put on the airs of pride and self- 
sufficiency, indulging all the insignificant visions of our 
self-love. 



NO. II, 



maUISITIYENESS. 



Curiosity is the besetting sin of all weak persons, 
and of those who are separated from the rest of the 
world by distance or peculiar pursuits. In general, the 
persons most affected with this disease (for it is as 
much one as a fever or the itch) are, old persons, (wo- 
men more particularly,) and children. It is a general 
stigma against country towns and villages, that this 
vice flourishes in them with the greatest rankness. 
But I believe it is (if possible) found to grow with still 
greater luxuriance in secluded and out of the way dis- 
tricts, where a few families Hve within a mile or two of 
each other, composing a community not, as (might be 
expected,) of friends, but rather of rivals. In towns 
and large cities, where the population is so much vaster, 
the diversity of interests so much wider, and where 
personal feelings are merged in the general and public 
welfare, it is very different. In the latter, where every 
occurrence of consequence is rapidly circulated, this 
weed has but little room to grow. Next door neigh- 
bours are perfect strangers in the city ; whereas, in the 
country the lineage of every family within ten miles is 
as well known as that of one's own kindred. The 



18 INQUI&ITIVENESS. 

repositories of all traditionary information — the old peo- 
ple — are versed in the occupations, way of life, charac- 
ters and tempers, of all their neighbours for half a cen- 
tury back. They can tell what distemper neighbour 
A's colt and eldest son both died of in a certain year^ 
and they are deep in the family history of Mr. B. ; the 
deacon's estate is computed to a copper, while the law- 
yer and squire are estimated as worth nothing in more 
than one sense. 

Inquisitiveness was a slur formerly c^st upon the 
Athenian character, as it is at the present day upon the 
inhabitants of New PJngland. 

In both instances it arose from the excessive quick- 
ness and ingenuity of each people ; but even, allowing 
it to stand, neither have any reason to be ashamed of 
it in general, though it may be unjust in particular 
cases, for it has led the latter to discoveries and improve- 
ments which none but " a guesser" could ever have 
conceived. The Athenians also have done so much in 
every department, and have so splendidly excelled in 
whatever is truly great, that this defect may readily be 
granted them as an offset to their brilliant achieve- 
ments. They went about, we are told, asking "if 
there was any new thing ;'' and truly their successors 
on the stage have not lost a whit of this propensity. 

One of the chief characteristics of modern society is 
the craving and morbid appetite for novelty. This 
feeling appears to result from the progressive spirit of 
the age, which will not allow its contemporaries any 
subjects of inquiry but those just passing or neac a^ 



INQUISITIVENESS. 19 

hand. For the past there seems to be no respect or 
sympathy. There is no retrospection ; or if, as in a 
few cases, there is any, it is generally indulged to favour 
our own pretensions, and to elevate us above our fore- 
fathers. The avidity with which news is gathered 
is the support of the newspaper press, which, from mo- 
tives of interest, pampers this desire to an incalculable 
degree. There are some persons who read nothing but 
newspapers, and whose whole stock of knowledge is 
derived from them. This accounts pretty plainly for 
the superficial character of modern political assemblies, 
and the ease with which they are gulled by a skilful 
pohtician, with their eyes open. 

But to return : — Inquisitiveness is found most strong 
in elderly persons, who live retired in the country. 
Having no access to the current news of the day, they 
are effectually shut out from general sympathy, so much 
so that when a stranger comes along in the shape of a 
visiter, he undergoes all the racking questions of the 
Inquisition itself. My aunt Betsey Fidget, in other 
respects as worthy a soul as ever breathed, is perfect 
mistress of this species of examination. I have often 
thought she would have made a capital lawyer. She 
probes to the quick ; her conversation is a catechism — 
question and answer — and carried on with the precision 
and exactness of a commission of interrogatories. She 
is very expert at pumping. Affecting an air of indif- 
ference, and a desultory vein of conversation, she will 
pin one down to facts as if under oath ; and in answer- 
ing her slightest queries, I feel as if any attempt at 

2t 



20 INQ.UISITIVENESS. 

equivocation would be no less than flat perjury. This 
is well enough when you are disposed to carry on the 
jest, but if not in the humor for it, 1 am generally af- 
flicted with a sudden loss of memory, and ignorance of 
persons and circumstances quite suspicious. 

Those who talk much, will always say more than 
they really know ; and the worst of the matter is, that 
those who wish to extract from you materials for their 
dish of tea-table scandal, will always quote you as the 
author of it, and thereby give you the credit of promul- 
gating voluntarily what was obtained with difficulty 
and unwillingness. 

Children are inquisitive, because their minds are 

opening and ready recipients of knowledge of every sort. 

But they confirm our natural hatred of scandal, by 

soundly flogging those of their own age who carry tales, 

or make themselves obnoxious as spies or listeners. 

They expel the offender from their little circle, and 

thus give another proof of the natural sense of justice 

and right. 

The other defect growing out of an indulgence in 

this folly, is the habit such persons fall into of running 
around, picking up tit-bits of gossip, and retailing them 
with as much sauce piquante as they can furnish. 

The two classes into which these last-mentioned 
persons may be divided, are political quidnuncs, and 
literary quacks. The latter, to begin with him who 
has the highest pretensions, is a most insufferable cox- 
comb, with just enough of learning to expose his igno- 
rance ; enough of wit to show his folly, and enough of 



INQUISITIVENESS. 21 

artificial taste to discover the want of correct judgment, 
he sets up as universal critic and censor-general. His 
opinions are encyclopedical, and embrace the whole 
compass of art, science, and literature. Besides these, 
he has his own claims to prefer, and declares himself a 
proficient in every species of composition. He has the 
reputation of being a finished Latinist, and cannot write 
a sentence of common English. In short, he bears the 
same resemblance to (he genuine author and true lite- 
rary character, as a certain well-known quadruped, 
whose voice is a bray, does to the noble fleet courser of 
Arabia. In point of information, he is remarkable for 
knowing when a certain work, which was never de- 
signed save in his imagination, will come out ; what 
work a celebrated author is at present upon, and how 
long the heroic poem on the aboriginal Indians will 
employ Mr. R. He gives himself out as hand and 
glove with the most popular authors of the day ; and 
will tell you with a knowing wink, that well-known 
hand is engaged upon the life of Mohammed. 

The political quidnunc is by no means so univer- 
sal in his pretensions. Not he ! having more serious 
business on hand, perhaps the election of the next 
mayor, and his mind is engrossed by vast plans for the 
public good, probably sinking a pump, or laying pipes 
m front of his own door. He is a very amusing cha- 
racter indeed ; but I need not go far in delineating him, 
since he has been painted to the very life in Addison's 
admirable portrait of the political upholsterer. 

Besides the expression of curiosity in impertinent and 



22 INQUISITIVENESS. 

useless questions, it is frequently manifested in looks 
and general manner. It is seen in an inquiring glance, 
or an eager desire for information imprinted on the 
countenance ; it is of the most unpleasant sort. You 
may reply to questions or rebuke the querist, but looks 
cannot be so easily controlled. There are people whose 
habitual look is a vacant stare mingled with an inqui- 
sitive prying gaze. Such an one will eye every mouth- 
ful you swallow, every motion you make, and indeed 
every thing you do ; as if he were endeavouring to 
ascertain whether you were the man who picked his 
pocket, or an old jail-bird whom he has seen convicted 
at the Court of Sessions. Some also, who give them- 
selves out as great judges of character, make good their 
boast by watching you closely, seeking to find out all 
they can see, and to discover the bent of your disposi- 
tion by playing the part of an in-door watchman or 
body-guard. 

Inquisitive persons, who sincerely mean to do you a 
service, commonly prov^e Marplots — spoihng every 
thing they undertake by their awkward management 
of it. They generally effect this purely from their good 
nature, which flows undirected into channels where its 
presence is unwished and distasteful. 

Akin to this temper of mind is an instinctive propen- 
sity to run after every species of wonders, and to indulge 
the sense of sight with all the nionsters of creation, or 
all the pomp of cerenrony. Observation is co-equal 
with the power of vision, though the former implies the 
presence of mental perception as well as of keen eye- 



INQUISITIVENESS. 2S 

sight. The great mass of men are found to confirm 
this principle on every occasion ; so powerful is the 
passion for novelty, which has pervaded every class of 
the community. It is a great, though common error, 
to suppose the common mob alone enjoy these things. 
It is not so. They have companions in sympathy 
among those who regard themselves as the most refined 
of mankind. 

In fine, of all the pests of conversation, those who 
pelt their associates with inquiries at every turn, are 
the most insufferable. There is no reason or sense in 
it. It is merely the gratifying of a vain desire to ac- 
quire what is worthless when you have obtained it- 
It also argues a want of internal resources, to be obliged 
to sustain one's intellectual vigor on the concerns of 
neighbours or of the nation. A person must be pos- 
sessed of a very thin stratum of original reflection, who 
is forced to know the opinions of others, and resembles 
those speculators who trade on another's capital with- 
out any means of their own. 



NO. Ill 



LA BRUYERE. 



The French are perfect masters of the philosophy 
of manners, or, as they term it, " science du monde ;" 
whether they are equal proficients in the philosophy 
of morals or of mind, may admit of a question. To 
account for this, is by no means difficult. It arises 
from their social disposition and natural readiness of 
apprehension. Commerce with the world sharpens 
their original acuteness, and renders them expert in 
detecting the nice shades of character, and the more 
visible peculiarities of manner. Though mannerists 
themselves, yet are they extremely skilful in analyzing 
and painting the manners of others. This national 
trait is observable in most of their celebrated writers. 
It shines brilliantly on the pages of Moliere and Le- 
sage, and forms the staple of their writings. In fact, their 
authors are perfect men of the world, and cannot be 
otherwise than shrewd and knowing. We know not 
how it is, but there seems to be something in the very 
atmosphere of France imparting vivacity and a full 
flow of animal spirits. 

Such men cannot recognize a character like that 
of the old-fashioned scholar of whom we read. A man 



LA BRUYERE. 25 

burying himself amidst his foHos, and turning his 
library into a living tomb — who was willing, for the 
sake of conversing with the mighty dead, to surrender 
his right to the society of the Uving great— a monkish 
idolater at the shrine of books, who, striking off his 
name from the roll of the world's busy citizens, re- 
signed his place to some more enterprising and bustling 
individual. This presents an anomaly no Frenchman 
can ever resolve. In literature, this spirit has not only 
pervaded their lighter writings, but it also mingles with 
their graver speculations. Shrewdness is the distin- 
guishing feature of their ethical philosophy as delivered 
by Rochefoucauld and La Bruyere. With this shrewd- 
ness is -mingled a scholastic formality derived from 
their avowed imitation of the ancients, giving their 
productions an air of great stiffness and rigor. They 
want the ease, the familiar tone, and the natural logic 
of the English writers in the same department. And 
here we may see the best proof of the axiom, that they, 
whether writers or speakers, who are the lightest and 
most agreeable on gay topics, are on grave subjects 
the most stupid and tiresome. It has been said of such 
an one, that " his hawk's eye, which sparkled at a jest, 
looked blank at a speculation." Besides this, they are 
greatly deficient in fancy, and therefore are without 
that which gives life and spirit to philosophic writing, 
— the power of illustration. Figures, metaphors, and 
similes never appear in their writings ; but every thing 
is delivered in an oracular manner, never relieved by 
the embellishments of composition. 



26 LA BRUYERE. 

But it is on the score of originality that they are 
mostly wanting. There is no boldness or freedom in 
their theorizing, no variety nor marked expression in 
their phraseology ; all is correct, classic and borrowed. 
Such a writer as Berkeley, for instance, would make 
the whole nation stare (maugre their politeness) by the 
poetry of his style and the brilliancy of his paradox. 
All this we think to be true of their attempts in moral 
writing. In the ranks of highly civilized society, as 
well as of common life, they reign supreme. Their 
best novels and comedies are full of just and striking 
pictures of life, and are the best specimens of their 
every-day philosophy. Of the French writers, however, 
who not employing fiction for the purposes of instruction, 
have spoken out the truth plainly in works of sober 
reason, La Bruyere stands foremost. To estimate his 
writings and ability with justice, we should consider 
when he wrote, and his topics of discussion. In his 
time there had appeared no Spectator, no Tatler; there 
were no manuals of popular philosophy and criticism ; 
nor any general observer and censor of the characters 
and manners of the age. For, having been the first 
of his nation to note down, discriminate, and reflect 
upon, the persons and occurrences passing before him, 
and the thoughts and observations of his own mind^ 
he certainly deserves high consideration. It is true 
many opinions, then new and lately discovered, are 
mere truisms now; this, though it diminishes the 
value of his book, by no means lessens his own merit. 
The same might be asserted of all the old writers, yet 



LA BRUYER&. 27 

would it be harsh in the extreme to deny their genu- 
ine originality. The title of his great work is, " The 
Characters J or the Manners of the Present Age." It 
has the great merit which very many cannot claim, 
of declaring its aim and general scope. '•' I borrowed,'' 
says he, very modestly, "the subject matter of this book 
from the public." And richly has he repaid the debt. 
It is a general epitome of his observations and reflec- 
tions on a variety of subjects, all deeply interesting to 
every man of sense and discernment. He ranges from 
pohte learning to the pulpit, and carefully traverses 
the intermediate grounds. Society, and the passions 
which exist there, the faculties to ensure success in it, 
and the manifold hues of those who mingle in it, is, 
however, his grand and favourite theme. He was, 
perhaps, a little too much of a courtier and gentleman 
moralist; but is that wonderful in a man who breathed 
the parasitical air of a court, over which one of the 
most arbitrary and self-loving sovereigns that ever Hved 
presided ? But there did arise a manifest disadvantage 
'•om this, since it presented to his view characters al- 
most purely artificial. In painting these he is very 
happy ; but all his skill deserts him when he takes up 
one purely natural. In addition to this, all his portraits 
were contemporaries, giving a local character to his 
work, which must have made it, as indeed it was, 
highly popular at the time, [though since much neg- 
lected. But though local and mostly artificial with 
but very few exceptions, he still touches off their traits 
in a masterly style. Perhaps no man ever lived of a 

3 



28 LA BRUYERE. 

finer and more delicate vein of observation. He gives 
the broad features and tlie subtler parts of a character 
with equal fidelity, force, and finish. Passing over his 
portraits of bishops and dukes, for whom nobody cares 
a rush, I will enumerate but four, each of which is 
perfect. The absent man, made famous by Addison's 
mention of him in the Spectator, is most admirable. 
As it may be readily turned to, I will not quote it, but 
give the three others, of Rabelais, Lafontaine, and 
Corneille — all Frenchmen in whom he took generous 
pride, and writers whom no subsequent critic has ever 
anatomized with one half of his skill. The translation 
is by Rowe, the dramatist. 

"Rabelais is incomprehensible; his book is an inexplicable enig. 
ma, a mere chimera ; a woman's face with the feet and tail of a 
serpent, or some beast more deformed ; a monstrous connection 
of fine and ingenious morality with a mixture of beastliness ; where 
'tis bad, 'tis abominable, and fit for the diversion of the stable ; and 
where good, 'tis exquisite, and may entertain the most delicate." 

The following is a portrait of Lafontaine, a fac- 
simile of our delightful English poet, Gay: 

"A person who appears dull, sottish, and stupid, knows neither 
how to speak or to relate what he has seen — if he sets to write, no 
man does it better; he makes animals, stones, and trees talk, and 
every thing which cannot talk ; his works are full of nothing but 
elegance, easy, natural sense, and delicacy." 

Corneille concludes the noble triumvirate : 

" Another is plain, timorous, and tiresome in conversation ; mis- 
takes one word for another, and judges not of the goodness of his 
writings but by the money they bring him in ; knows not to recite 
or read his own hand. Leave him to compose, and he is not infe- 



LA BRUYERE. 2ll 

rior to Augustus, Pompey, Nicodemus, and Heraclius ; he is a 
king, and a great king; a politician, a philosopher; he describes 
tho Romans, and they are greater and more Romans in his verse 
than in their history." 

It was scldoirij however^ he had such men *o sit to 
hitn for their portraits ; he passes short hut pithy criti- 
cisms on Moliere, Bossuet, and several other of his 
great contemporaries ; but on none is a judgment 
passed more fastidiously correct, or a compliment more 
delicately as well as heartily expressed, than on those 
just quoted. 

His particular excellence, however, lay not so much 
in portrait, as in general reflection. He had a thorough 
knowledge of the heart, and could trace with unerring 
skill the sinuous windings of the affections. He was 
also completely acquainted with all the mixed modes 
of artificial life. On all serious topics he is earnest and 
apparently sincere, nor did he fall into the slough of 
French philosophy — atheism. On the contrary, he 
never alludes to the supreme Being without respect 
and awe. His general cast of mind was that of one 
governed by the strictest rules of propriety, not one 
anxious to be distinguished as well by a glaring defect 
as any thing else. Judgment predominated over his 
other faculties, though he also possessed keen wit, the 
acutest penetration, fine sentiment, and finished taste. 
As an author, though far from voluminous, his only 
other works being a translation of Theophrastus' cha- 
racters, and a few addresses to the French Academy, 
he is remarkably well versed in all the arts and nice- 



30 LA BRUYERE. 

ties of composition. To substantiate this latter asser- 
tion, I will only produce three or four passages : 

••'Tis as much a trade to make a book, as to make a watch; 
there's somethirrg more than wit requisite to make an author." 

"We think of things differently, and express them in a term 
altogether as different : by a sentence, an argument, or some other 
figure, a parallel, a simple comparison, by a story at length, or a 
single passage, by a description, or a picture.** 

*• To express truth, is to write naturally, forcibly, and delicately." 

"The pleasure of criticising takes away from us the pleasure of 
being sensibly touched with the finest things,** &.c. 

T might multiply extracts, but must give others of a 
different kind. To determine his fine insight into t}:ie 
ways of the world, pages might be taken almost indis- 
criminately from the body of the work, but a few sen- 
tences must suffice. The following two sentences are 
worthy of the subtlest politician that ever ^^ schemed 
his hour upon the stage :'* 

"He is far gone in cunning, who makes other people believe he 
is but indifferently cunning." 

" Amongst such as out of cunning hear ail and talk little, do you 
talk less; or if you will talk much, speak little to the purpose." 

One would think the writer of this must have been 
a mere knave and an arrant dissembler, yet was he a 
man of almost feminine sensibility. This, at least, 
should prove it, (allowing his sincerity :) 

" A fine face is the finest of all sights ; and the sweetest music> 
the sound of her voice "/hom we love." 

Another leuiark, displayed his knowledge of the 
inconstant fair : 

" The women of the world look on a gardener as a gardeae?» 



LA BRUYERE. 31 

and a mason as a mason. Your recluse ladies look on a mason as 
a man, and a gardener as a man." 

His idea of the pleasantest company is, after all, the 
true one : 

"The best society and conversation is that in which the heart 
has a greater share than the head." 

A thousand other admirable maxims are on the tip 
of my pen, but my space forbids going much further. 

In fine, the mind of La Bruyere was not one of great 
capacity, nor of extreme loftiness, nor yet was it very 
profound. But it was as nice, delicate, acute, and of as 
fine a grain within its limits, as that of any man that 
ever lived. 

There is but one other French author with whom 
La Bruyere can be compared, and that is Rochefou- 
cauld ; though the latter has published so little that he 
can hardly be called an author. Still, he is an original 
thinker, a character few authors can boast. They 
were both of them men who looked upon the world 
and its doings with the calm eyes of philosophers and 
men of the world. They had both the same solidity 
of judgment and quickness of observation. As writers, 
they both exhibited powers of great condensation, and 
employed the same briUiant axiomatic style. 

The general character of his morality is not of a 
very lofty or unattainable nature, but suited to men 
of business and men of the world. He was in prose 
what Pope was in poetry, the author for the man 
of sense. He further possessed a great deal of true 
wit of the kind that grows out of shrewdness and 
3t 



32 LA BRUYERE. 

caustic satire. Although he never (wisely) pretended 
to form a system^ or pompously to usher in a new dis- 
covery, yet he has certainly said some new things on 
the most familiar topics. Where the matter of his 
remarks is old, the manner compensates for it. The 
latter is fresh and sparkling, and produces the same 
effect upon the reader as fine elocution does on an 
auditor. 



:no. IV. 



LITERARY EGOTISM. 

It appears to me that a writer may be permitted publicly to de- 
compose the state of his mind, and to make observations on his own 
character, for the benefit of other men, rather than to leave his body 
by will to a professor of anatomy. — Zimmerman. 

We all love a frank, engaging temper. We are 
won by an open demeanor, which debars any thought 
of cunning or reserve. To say that a person is affable, 
is one of the greatest praises that can be bestowed on 
his manner or conversation. Is it not strange, then, that 
most of us are so horribly shocked at any thing hke an 
expression of individual opinion or feeling in a writer ? 
Yet is this one of the commonest criticisms you shall 
hear passed on an author of original genius, who 
evinces in his writings any marks of a communicative 
disposition. 'Tis from a deep-rooted self-love ; we hate 
to hear a man talking of himself — arising from the 
feehng of our own deficiency in having done nothing 
about which we can talk ourselves. 

The introduction of personal character into literary 
composition, is an original feature in modern literature. 
Casual allusions to themselves and their works, are, to 
be sure, not unfrequent in Horace and Cicero; but 
nothing of that free and undisguised self-anatomy, 



34 LITERARY EGOTISM. 

which we find in the works of such men as Montaigne, 
Rousseau, and HazHtt. 

The imitators of the ancients shrunk from any- 
such confession as humiliating and undignified, with 
a sickly tastefulness more congenial to the school-girl 
than to the healthy intellect of a man. 

'^rhe great charm of this marked personality lies in 
the intimate connexion growing up between the author 
and reader. The latter is placed upon the footing of a 
friend, and treated with all the confidence attributed to 
that noble relation. 

Common-place people turn up their noses, and sneer 
at any exhibition of this sort in print, while in their 
conversation and daily intercourse with the world, they 
offend in the same way, (if it be an offence ;) with this 
great difference, that instead of revealing noble natures, 
they discover nothing but the workings of mean, cap- 
tious, shrivelled souls. The truth is, they dare not be 
confidential, else they would be hooted at; as their 
whole course of life is one prolonged tissue of little 
thoughts and petty actions. In one sense, indeed, they 
are the greatest of all egotists, for they rate themselves 
too highly to risk any confession whatever. 

Egotism is often (almost always) found in company 
with vanity, rarely with pride. It renders a man's 
writings more valuable and sought after, after his 
death than while he is living. In the latter case there 
is palpable knowledge of him obtained through the 
coai-se medium of pei*sonal communication ; in the 
former, the hazy clouds which hang over his past ex- 



LITERARY EGOTISM. 35 

istence seem to spiritualize whatever is material and 
unattractive. Besides, we read his works with more 
interest then than while he was living, and we could 
see him by taking a turn in the street. In the crea- 
tures of his brain we perceive a finer essence and a 
more distinct individuality than we could gather from 
any intimacy. They afford, in addition to their in- 
trinsic merit, an historical record of himself. They 
present to us his peculiarities of mind and person, his 
original bias and prejudices, and his acquired habits. 
This species of personal authorship is as dehghtful as 
a fine piece of biography, with the advantage of its 
coming from the writer himself. Others may judge 
more fairly of his writings, but he certainly knows 
better the secrets engraved upon " the red-leaved ta- 
blets of the heart." He pours these out with a liberal 
profuseness worthy of his magnificent spirit, for they 
are his riches and pure ore to us. If a man in any 
other situation in life speaks with confidence of him- 
self, and dwells with satisfaction on his performances, 
we forgive his openness and acquit him of the affecta- 
tion of modesty. We place reliance on him who relies 
boldly on himself. In the case of a writer, the tables 
are completely turned. The world looks with a jealous 
eye upon his fame and genius. They seek to depress 
him in every possible way. They patronize or neglect 
him to show their power. He is at their mercy. He 
appeals to them. They alone can save and honour 
him. They are at once judge, jury, and advocate. 
They must plead in his behalf, consult together re- 



36 LITERARY EGOTISM. 

specting his merits, and decide accordingly. It is in 
their hands to acquit or condemn. In other charac- 
ters, as, for instance, in that of a professional man, 
they speedily acknowledge mediocre talents, and raise 
them to an undue elevation. He may obtain office or 
enrich himself with the spoils of party. If he turn to 
trade, he is welcomed with open arms, and a shower 
of gold is rained upon him. But let him turn author, 
and no epithet is deemed sufficiently degrading for 
him. He is then a vacillating, shiftless fellow — an 
idler — a mere vagabond. Thus must he submit to be 
esteemed by those who cannot confer the glory he 
seeks, while he has the ready and hearty approbation 
of those who can. Zeal and a partial interest in the 
literary character, have diverted us a little from the 
topic with which w^e set out. To return ; all great 
and original thinkers must be, at least in some mea- 
sure, egotists. Solitude and reflection, let them be ever 
so busy, leave them much leisure to look into their 
own minds. Every action of their lives, the habits 
into which they have become indurated, their present 
feelings — all refer to some peculiar circumstances fixed 
in their memory by the iron chain of association. They 
are creatures of sentiment as well as of intellect. Every 
idea in their minds is influenced by every pulsation of 
their hearts. They feel acutely as well as think pro- 
foundly. Their hearts do not ask leave of their heads 
to feel. The one may give the other a useful lesson. 
Hence they hoard up as a precious relic every token 
of their past pleasures or sufferings, and at the moment 



LITERARY EGOTISM. 37 

of writing are impressed as sensibly as when they first 
felt those emotions. They are the only true chronolo- 
gists of feeling. Their memory is retentive of impulses 
as well as of ideas. 

The personal history of many distinguished authors 
is full of instances to this effect; and of none, perhaps, 
more so than the late William Hazlitt. It was this 
colouring of mind and character which pervaded his 
masterly criticisms and his profound metaphysical dis- 
quisitions. It breaks out in a dramatic criticism, or 
bursts full upon the reader in the discussion of some 
subject far abstracted from the remarks to which it 
may give rise. His love, his faith in man. his airy 
hopes, the characters of his friends, his mental w^eak- 
nesses, the brilliant points of his genius, pass in review 
before us, and melt in the thin air of his gorgeous 
rhapsody. 

In many writers the passages oftenest turned to are 
full of this self-confession, and constitute the best por- 
tion of their works. Though incidentally most de- 
lightful, yet it is dangerous for a writer to make this 
the staple of his composition. In fact, it can never be 
done with success, unless by a master; otherwise it 
will fall to the ground, a baseless fabric, unsupported 
by the ground- work of past performances. 

It is an error to suppose egotism consists in speaking 
well of ourselves only. It lays in frequent mention of 
ourselves, whether with approbation or not. Besides, 
it may be discovered in different ways ; — a marked 
style, a certain manner of treating a subject, and a 



38 LITERARY EGOTISM. 

particular vein of speculation, render a work as indi- 
vidual as the constant use of the personal pronoun. 
The most subtle form of egotism is, to make a third 
person speak your own sentiments, painting him after 
your own character. The novel and the drama are 
the true provinces for the exercise of this talent. These 
methods have been employed by most writers of emi- 
nence. Shakspeare alone has been pronounced an 
exception ; for, in the multifarious characters which 
stud his pages as stars the firmament, there is none 
which can be fastened upon him who painted them 
aU. 

Egotism assumes a different appearance in different 
characters. In the man of the world, it is gay and 
cheerful ; in the contemplative scholar, more abstract 
and refined. In the poet, it is lofty and elevated ; in 
the metaphysician, complex and subtle. T.'he best 
specimens of agreeable egotism may be found in our 
periodical essayists. The finest sample of profound 
egotism, in the poetical speculatist and sincere self-stu- 
dent, is Rousseau. Epic poets are inclined to egotism, 
as Milton : dramatic authors less frequently, though 
Ben Johnson was an instance to the contrary. 

To sum up the question in few words. Is it not as 
reasonable for a man to dissect his own mind as to 
leave it to some one to mangle for him ? Is he not 
surer of hitting near the truth, and bringing out traits 
undiscoverable by others, who draws from individual 
experience and feeling, instead of transferring this 
task to a stranger? Should he fall into the hands 



LITERARY EGOTISM. 39 

of a friend, one who loved him dearly or hated him 
most cordially, he would inevitably be overpraised or 
underrated as affection or envy swayed the balance. 
He is certain of being dealt with unjustly by an enemy 
in many particulars. He has no alternative then but 
to sit as critic upon himself, and be his own historian. 
When he dies, he will then leave the world a copy 
done by the surest and truest hand. 



NO. V. 



BOASTERS AND BULLIES. 

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears 
With this abundance of superfluous breath 1 

King John. 

What art thou ? Have not I 

An arm as big as thine] a heart as big ] 

Thy words, I grant, are bigger ; for I wear not 

My dagger in my mouth. 

Cymbeline 

A Boaster is an Orator, who excels chiefly in 
hyperbole. After this he is most given to seeing visions 
of past achievements and of future glory. He is your 
only true magician, for what he conjures up is really 
existent to the eye of his partial fancy. This is at 
least an actual verity, what he believes in what he 
says more frequently than he is generally allowed. 
"When relating any particular action of his or the hand 
he had in any affair, he (for the time) is a self-deceiver, 
and credits his own tale. Hazlitt gives an instance, in 
one of his Table Talks, of a person with whose very 
constitution a love for fiction was so thoroughly min- 
gled, that he could not, for the life of him, speak truth 
or act truth, bequeathing a large imaginary estate to 
several friends, who never suspected the imposture till 
they came to examine their title to it. A capital pic- 
ture of such a temper is exhibited in the lying captain 



BOASTERS AND BULLIES. 41 

in Peter Simple. It is in some respects, however, a 
most happy frame of mind, for it enlarges a man's 
estimation of himself, and produces the same impres- 
sion on the minds of most of his acquaintances. Since 
few have perception enough to discover the real char- 
acter of any one, even among their intimate associates, 
and are very willing to take his own opinion of him- 
self as the correct one, especially as it saves them the 
trouble of exercising any nice judgment or balancing 
opposite qualities in the delicate scales of analysis. It 
is not uncommon, therefore, that the boaster finds his 
gulls, as the bully those who fear him. 

A common species of boasters are your travelled 
blades, " who've seen^ and sure they ought to know ;" 
but, unluckily, the optics of these moon-eyed gentry 
are little better than the total blindness of a man of 
sense, who has never stirred out of sight of the smoke 
of his own chimney. These are full of the desperate 
adventures they passed through when abroad ; so that 
it would seem Fortune had gone out of her way to 
make their path as wild and rugged as she generally 
does to make it smooth and easy. Place such a fellow 
in the company of men of tenfold his ability and expe- 
rience, and there will be no discourse but his- own 
chattering. 

In England he boxed with Mendoza and rode 
matches with Chifney ; at Venice he swam with Lord 
Byron, and took a sociable dish of tea with the Doge : 
at Rome he was favoured with a personal introduction 
to his Holiness without kissing his toe : and he was 



42 BOASTERS AND BULLIES. 

esteemed the best dancer, fencer, and billiard-player in 
all Paris. He improvised at Naples and sang in all 
private companies at Florence. A German scavan 
dedicated his commentary on Kant [cant] to him, and 
his desk a iiome is uiicd with ' yiiiing ana piose 
epistles from the first authors of Europe. His admi- 
rable figure was ad i aired in Dublin, and his scientific 
acquirements at Edinburgli. In fact, he out-herods 
Herod himself, and throws the admirable Crichton 
completely into the shade. To crown all, when he 
comes back he is made a lion of for a season or two, 
delivers a few popular lectures and gives exclusive 
concerts. He winds up by becoming (when his char- 
racter is pretty well got abroad and his cash begins to 
run low) the butt and laughing-stock of his former 
admirers and parasites. 

Of another kind are they who pride themselves on 
their successful address in matters of gallantry ; but 
the fastidious mock- modesty of the present age, which 
is afraid of hearing things called by their proper names, 
forbids my dwelling upon this point. 

The varieties of boasters, like the varieties of the 
human countenance, are endless. There are those 
who are always about to execute a great work (either 
in hterature or the arts,) who never do any thing, but 
exhaust all their small stock of talent in talking about 
it. Praise a well-established writer of moderate repu- 
tation ; he is nothing to what they are about to attain. 
They are ever designing, never completing. 

Besides these, there is your political boaster, who 



BOASTERS AND BULLIES. 43 

asserts that he has " done the state some service," ar\d 
enumerates every petty motion he has ever made, every 
petition he has presented, every harangue he has been 
known to utter ; your mihtary boaster, your Thraso 
or Miles Gloriosus, who has " fought his battles o'er 
again" every day after dinner for the last ten years, 
and will continue to do so for the remainder of his life ; 
your medical boaster, who relates the great cures (sink- 
ing his failures and licensed murders like bad debts ;) 
your legal boaster, who gloats over his cunning and 
keenness : 

Your chancery lawyer, who by subtlety thrives, * 

In spinning suits out to the length of three lives ; 
Such suits which the clients do wear out in slavery. 
Whilst pleader makes conscience a cloak for his knavery. 
May boast of his subtlety in the present tense, 
But non est inventus a hundred years hence. 

Your priestly boaster, who glories in the converted 
hearts of savages and civilized communities, whose 
own case is perhaps that of a cast-away ; unless sin- 
cere, when it is the happiest that can fall to the lot 
of man. 

A bully is a malevolent bad fellow at bottom. He 
has nothing of the capacious soul of the boaster, and 
never grasps at large domains, though they be those 
of the im.agination. His only aim is to be the terror 
of his circle. The leopard, not the lion, among his 
fellows, he desires not to strike awe, but to inspire fear. 
There are as many classes of the bully as of the 
boaster, and in the same departments of life. 

Among school-boys he is a strong, hardy, ill-featured, 
hang-looking dog. He has none of the hfe, generosity, 

4t 



44 BOASTERS AND BULLIES. 

and right spirit of bis companions ; aloof he regards 
their efforts with a sullen eye, and designs plans of 
tyranny over the weak and timid. 

The arts of the bully to impose upon strangers, and 
even to conceal for a while his bent from those who 
know him best, are ingenious and politic. Tlius his 
magniloquent style of speaking, hke the false subhme, 
not unfrequently passes current. 

Bobadil is master of this ; and his assumed indiffer- 
ence, when he talks of killing a large army at the rate 
of twenty men a day, is a fine comic trait. Captain 
Bluffin in the Old Bachelor is another of the same 
school ; though inferior to Bobadil, he has not his oro- 
tund style, but he has "the very trick of his frown," 
and can look big upon occasion. His real cowardice 
is more fully manifested, and in the scene with Belle- 
mont and Sharper admirably exposed. 

An ingenious pretext he employs for dissembling his 
cowardice, is an affected moderation in returning an 
insult. He has, to be sure, been kicked and cuffed ; 
but he merely rejoins with " You are obliging, sir, but 
this is too public a place to thank you in : hut in your 
ear you ore to he seen again.'''' 

The bully and the boaster belong to the same fam- 
ily, though the former is the eldest son and the latter 
among the younger children. The former had been 
petted and made much of while a child, a course of 
treatment which rendered his imperious temper more 
violent than ever when opposed to those he was sure 
of conquering. Whereas the latter, as his younger 



BOASTERS AND BULLIES. 45 

brother, was enjoined all possible respect and rever- 
ence to his elders; was snubbed and cowed down a 
dozen times a day, until what spirit he ever possessed 
was quite broken, and so at last he took it all out in 
talking-. This exclusion from the use of his fists has 
made his tongue wag more glibly than ever, and has 
certainly improved his talent for conversation. Added 
to this, his abstinence from action has warmed and 
heightened his fancy, and made him in one sense a 
creative genius. 

There is something palpably mean and criminal in 
the bully ; the worst with which we can charge the 
boaster is his tendency to exaggeration and self-exalt- 
ation. The former is positively vicious, the latter no 
more than a fool, often an agreeable one, and seldom 
wholly despicable. There is a largeness of soul in the 
latter which pardons all attempts to magnify himself, 
while there is nothing in the former to attract sym- 
pathy. Jt may be said in extenuation, that the bully 
is a bastard hero; without denying that this may 
sometimes happen, still he is a hero of the least hon- 
ourable sort — a blood-thirsty, brutally courageous hero. 
The boaster is a sincerer man : the bully knows he is 
a coward. The character of the boaster has never 
been nicely discriminated on the stage, except in the 
inimitable portraits of Falstaff and Parolles — all the 
other portraits have been a mixture of the bully and 
the boaster, where the latter, as the pleasantest char- 
acter, always predominated. We see this in Bobadil, 
in Pistol, in Bluffin, and a few others. 



46 BOASTERS AND BULLIES. 

Perhaps the most magnificent boaster on record was 
Benvenuto CelUni, a reference to whose autobiography 
will satisfy the most skeptical. The most obnoxious 
bully may afford a fine field for conjecture ; but I 
think he may be found entire among some of the most 
detestable of the Roman emperors, to take eminent ex- 
amples ; or, to go a little lower, among some of the 
petty magistrates of our own free and independent 
country. 



NO. VI. 



ON DULL PEOPLE. 

" There is a kind of heaviness and ifinorance that hangs upon the 
minds of ordinary men, which is too thick for knowledge to break 
through. Their souls are not to be enlightened." — xYudison. 

"Nox atra cava circumvolat umbra." — Virgil. 

It requires little knowledge of life or of human na- 
ture to be aware of the existence of dull people, heavy 
fellows, or stupid geniuses, as they are variously entitled. 
They are too frequently to be met with for any one to 
plead an ignorance of their habits and characteristics. 
They spring up like useless weeds in every corner ; 
and the first man who jostles you in a crowd or treads 
upon your corns, you may be pretty sure is one of this 
class. Their name is Legion. 

I cannot define dulness more justly than by likening 
it to a sterile and barren soil; and as a barren tract 
may be of great extent, so the mind of a dull man may 
contain a vast store of other people's ideas : it is too 
unreasonable to expect any original ones from him. 
Or it may be compared to a " healing mist" over- 
spreading the original brightness of his mind, (sup- 
puking this ever to have exiated,) and clo'jding it from 
hi.^ own and liom others' view. In the latter case we 
allow for the influence of certain studies and pursuits. 



48 ON DULL PEOPLE. 

Every thing of a grave nature is in danger of becom- 
ing dull by being pored over seriously and too long at 
a time. All kinds of writing, for instance, involving 
research and the collection of facts, are apt to destroy 
the taste ioi speculation bottomed on theory alone, and 
to dispel the fleeting clouds of fancy. A devotion to 
matter of fact annihilates the speculative powers, or 
renders them weak, flaccid, and inefficient. But he, 
who has dulness in his very nature, who has inhaled 
it with his first breath, and in whom it is closely min- 
gled with his constitution, loses none of it by contact 
with books or men of the most opposite description. 
He will read witty authors, and be a fool in repartee ; 
he will study metaphysics only to confuse his mind 
more than ever ; and he will master the poets without 
gaining any accessions of imagination. The man of 
genius (to repeat a trite remark) profits greatly by his 
studies, which, insensibly to himself, and by a process 
to which he is not a party, mingle with his own ideas, 
and stock his brain with fresh conceptions. The dull 
man can never make foreign matter coalesce with his 
own rubbish, and is therefore no better than the retailer 
of other men's intellectual productions. The dull man 
thinks all other men dull. Whatever is, is dull. When- 
ever he falls in with a person of original mind or abili- 
ties, he is put out of his reckoning, and thinks him a 
stray and out-of-the-way genius, and confesses he 
knows not what to make of him. By out of the way, 
he means, out of his own track of borrowed thought 
and vulgar observation. He loves (as is natural) dull 



ON DULL PEOPLE* 49 

men, and hates those who are otherwise. To him 
nothing that is dull is unwelcome. He is the patron, 
as well as companion of those in the like situation. 
He pities those who enter Ufe buoyant in spirit, and 
high in hope and expectation. In his youth he has 
probably attempted poetry, and failed in it as a matter 
of course. Ever after, he calumniates poetry, and all 
who " build the lofty rhyme." But a grave, stupid, 
studious young man, is his idol. Him he fosters with 
paternal care, dispenses to him the lessons of wisdom, 
not the fruit of experience or personal acquisition ; and, 
as his admiring pupil gazes with awe upon his coun- 
tenance, regards him with delight as a veritable inhe- 
ritor of his own dulness. A fine young fellow, brim 
full of talent and enthusiasm, he will advise with a 
contemptuous sneer on his mouth and a condescending 
voice to repress his feelings, for that experience will 
prove to him the emptiness of human things (among 
others, of his cant and his pretensions ;) and that he 
will be obliged to sink into a mere earlh-w^orm in his 
own despite. This is half the time said out of mere 
malice or jealousy. 

The most singular thing connected with this sort 
of persons, is the perfect unconsciousness they exhibit 
of their mental condition. But we will cease to won- 
der when we consider that the same clog upon their 
perception of excellence in others operates upon the 
perceptions of their own state. They are in such 
intellectual darkness, that they cannot even see them- 
selves. When we recollect this, we are furnished at 



50 ON DULL PEOPLE. 

once with a ready clue to many motives by which 
they are actuated, and to the cause of their woful mis- 
self-estimation. One of the sort I have been describing, 
prides himself upon his power of concentration, and 
with reason, for his head can contain but one idea 
at a time, on which he will repose for hours, perhaps 
days, — so that he cannot wander if he would. You 
must expect, therefore, that he is not over-merciful to 
light shuffling fellows, who have more of quicksilver 
than lead in their brains. It is from this faculty of 
keeping the mind at a halt that persons of this class of 
necessity turn to scholastic and grave studies as a last 
resource to keep themselves in countenance. They 
can produce nothing of their own minds, so the next 
best thing is to acquire the fruits of other men's. They 
hence get to have a vast admiration for scholars, and 
the more stupid and gross their intellects, and the more 
frivolous and formal their studies, so much higher is 
their admiration, so much louder their praise. Thus 
they flatter themselves over other people's shoulders. 
They consider the possessor of others' learning as 
much greater than the grand originals themselves. I 
have heard such a person assert roundly, and in a 
triumphant manner, that a man is not to be estimated 
by his natural powers, but by his artificial acquisitions ; 
that genius is a mere gift, and that a man of genius is 
no more than an inspired fool. The commentators on 
Shakspeare are by this reasoning greater than Shak- 
speare himself, and Horace is not fit to hold a candle to 
one of his verbal expounders. It is all very plain that 



bN DULL PEOPLE. 5^ 

they want to come in under the head of scholar, in 
order to take their rank accordingly. This leads me 
to remark, that there are certain studies and pursuits 
on which men of coarse and slow intellects are sure to 
fix, suited to their capacity, and sufficiently solemn to 
warrant a sage appearance and deportment. The 
principal of these are mathematics, logic, controversy 
of all sorts, and verbal criticism. It is a maxim of 
Goldsmith, that to the first of these " the meanest in- 
tellects are equal ;" and is not such the case ? We find 
more at school and in college who succeed in this than 
in any other branch of learning, which is sufficient of 
itself to determine the question, since the minds of the 
greater part of mankind being of a medium size, what 
most nearly fits them must be not only of compara- 
tively easy attainment, but also, failing in with their 
notions of utility, must be very little more than a mat- 
ter of practical skill, not of science and of philosophy. 
This applies in its full force to dull men, who take up 
mathematics as a matter of business, as something 
that must be conquered to get a reputation, and then 
all is over. The study is not pursued for purposes of 
pleasure or instruction, but solely for the name of the 
thing. In reference to these studies, 1 speak of them 
only as followed hy the persons I am attempting to 
delineate, without any thought (except in one case) 
of determining their relative or intrinsic value. Logic 
is another department into which they will thrust 
themselves. Of all mental pursuits, this art requires 
the rarest union of talents — perfect clearness of con- 



62 ON DULL PEOPLE. 

ception, extreme delicacy in distinguishing and ana- 
lyzing, faculties of combination and comparison, of 
definition and deduction, and various other weapons 
from the intellectual armoury, which few possess. It 
demands quickness and caution, rapid generalization, 
and the minutest analysis, great comprehension with 
great compression of intellect. In fine, it requires facul- 
ties inferior only to those of the poet. This is true only 
of the great masters of human reason, who most gen- 
erally possess the fancy of the poet and the fire of the 
orator tempered by the sagacity and calmness of the 
philosopher. Such were Bacon and Burke ; such are 
not the vast majority of logicians. To these, logic is 
attractive, because it deals in forms, definitions, com- 
mon-places, distinctions, and terms laid down in the 
books, which require nothing but memory to master. 
This is artificial logic. They will contrive to bring an 
Enthymene into play on every occasion, and cannot 
answer a simple question but by the use of a syllogism. 
Original reasoning is left out of consideration. Logic 
is, in fine, fitted for them, because, since most reason- 
ings on prominent topics are revived and re-discussed 
from age to age, they can merely turn to their volumes 
and common-place books and dish up as fine a hash 
of arguments and reasons for or against any question 
as you could wish to see. Set them upon a new 
point of discussion or original inquiry, and they are 
obliged to yield. One who discovers a single new 
argument, or puts an old truth in a novel light by 
the independent exercise of his own powers, is worth 



ON DULL PEOPLE. 53 

a thousand of the students of Aristotle and his cate- 
gories. 

Another favourite recreation of dull men, is the exer- 
cise of their controversial talents ; and, in truth, I never 
heard of any man who was too stupid to quarrel. 
Controversy heats their minds to something like enthu- 
siasm, but it is of a bastard kind. They must be up 
and doing, and while about their work imagine they 
excite the attention of the w^iole world. They require 
a stimulus to get started. Like the two characters in 
" the Little French Lawyer," they are obliged to kick 
each other to keep warm. " Lay on, and cursed be he 
who first cries hold, enough." If you advise them 
gently to forbear their heat and rancor, which they call 
" withering sarcasm," they contemplate you with pity ; 
and esteem you weak-spirited and lily-livered. They 
mistake the overflowings of bile for the powerful de- 
nunciation of eloquent invective. 

The last study I shall consider is, that of verbal 
criticism ; and here we have the very lowest of all lite- 
rary pursuits. Men, and some of them possessed of 
enough acuteness to make themselves tolerable at the 
bar or in the pulpit, have spent their whole lives in 
compiling volumes on the Greek article and pointing 
the sentences of an ancient autlior. With ineffable 
conceit they will tell you, that but for words, the ideas 
existing in the poet's fancy and the philosopher's un- 
derstanding had been lost for ever, putting words on a 
par with ideas, of which they are but the lacqueys. 
The servant is not greater than his lord. 



54 ON DULL PEOPLE. 

Besides eminence in all these, there is another pro- 
vince which the dull man aims at conquering, no Ies» 
a territory than the fair province of wit and humour. 
Laughter hold both thy sides, Gravity discompose not 
thyself at this monstrous absurdity. Yes it is even so : 
dulness, stone-blind, seeks to rival hawk-eyed wit, the 
owl to out-sing the melodious nightingale, the domestic 
fowl to out-fly the majestic falcon ! " Gentle dulnees 
always loves a jest." There is certainly nothing more 
stupid than the pleasantry of a dull fellow. His good 
things are Joe Miller's, or standards in his own circle. 
The attempts of a dull talker at light raillery are like 
the hypothetical movements of an elephant going 
through a contra-dance. The harshness of his voice 
is an antidote to laughter, and the slowness of his 
enunciation equal to the torture by Are. If you do not 
laugh at all theik* absurd attempts at ridicule, you are 
set down as one who cannot take a joke. I believe I 
have obtained this character wit'h two or three grave 
wits of my acquaintance, by refusing to see any thing 
in their most strained witticisms. 

This harmless desire to shine might easily be ex- 
cused but) for the egregious vanity with which it is^ 
accompanied, and which is most always the insep- 
arable attendant on dulness. It is discovered in a 
thousand little ways, by praising ^hose who resemble 
them, or those whom they think they resemble ; by 
speaking in dispraise of certain talents and qualifica- 
tions they do not possess, and eulogizing those they 
do. I have heard one of these reflect on an acquaint- 



ON DULL PEOPLE. 55 

ance for want of judgment and discrimination, while 
his own mind was wrapt in Egyptian darkness. They 
are presuming beyond endurance, as well as vain ; 
and to this mainly owe their success in life. For it 
may be observed, as a general rule, that your dull man 
gets on with much greater ease in the journey of life 
than your clever fellow. We naturally, in matters of 
importance, prefer a grave-looking personage to one 
whose face is wreathed in smiles ; and somehow sus- 
pect (often without reason) the steadiness of the latter, 
but place implicit reliance on the wisdom of the former. 
We know the one will adhere to established modes 
and settled forms, and that so far as regards the drudg- 
ing part, he will not fail ; we also acknowledge to our- 
selves the superior quickness, brilliancy, and talent of 
the other ; but distrust his stability and capacity for 
business. So the dull man grows fat, and the clever 
man starves in a garret from the superfluity of his 
mental riches and the total absence of all others. 
Happy dulness, that, being poor, is yet rich ; whose 
labours are of golden value, while the brain which 
directs them is cast in a mould of lead ! 

To depict the prominent traits of the dull man would 
require the finest pencil Shakspeare has, in the char- 
acter of Dull, told his want of character. There are 
minute peculiarities, however, upon which, as a dra- 
matist, he could not dwell. The pen of La Bruyere 
was better fitted for the task, but I do not remember 
of his having any where executed it. 

Longurio the Dull Man, is a thorough pedant, for 

5t 



56 ON DULL PEOPLE. 

he is confined to one profession — has no comprehen- 
sion beyond it, and rewards, with most contemptuous 
sneers, all who pretend to any liberality of taste and 
feeling. An eloquent man he calls a flashy declaimer; 
a humorist he tliinks a fool ; a brilliant metaphysician 
he considers unsound ; fancy he esteems a useless, and 
judgment a very admirable quality, (as it surely is.) 
He rejoices in the possession of plain common sense^ 
and will quote Pope's line to confirm this good opinion 
of himself. He lays great stress on experience, and 
esteems a fool of fifty much wiser than a genius of 
twenty. He hates innovation, and professes a love for 
the good old ways. He cannot walk in a new path. 
Literature delights not him; no, nor philosophy either^ 
He has no ear for melody, and yet reviles the most 
charming of the muses. He regards method as the 
secret of business talent ; and surely he is a fool who 
will gainsay it. His conversation is full of wise saws 
and modern instances. He talks by rote, criticises by 
rote, and reasons by rote ; that is to say, if he talks at 
all. fo4* he is for the most part tongue tied. Or if he is 
silent, he makes a tolerable listener, not often a very 
intelligent one to be sure. At the close of a lively dis- 
cussion we may say to him like Holofernes. viz., 
"Good-man Dull, thou hast spoken no word all this 
while." To which, if a candid man and a truth teller 
and no very deep politician, he will be likely to answer, 
"Nor understood one either, sir.'' His external appear- 
ance can rarely be mistaken. Dulness hangs on his 
lidsj sits astride of his nose, and puckers his mouth 



ON DULL PEOPLE. 57 

with conscious importance. The solid quaUties of such 
an one prevail over the ridiculous. Like an ancient 
deity, involved in his dark cloud, he is invulnerable. 
The high cares of the world touch him not. He is 
unmoved by anxieties, undisturbed by hopes, unin- 
fiamed by passions. Dulness preserves its votaries in 
that stagnation of the soul which recks not of " the 
death of friends or of friendship," of honours or the 
wealth of riches ; fame is to them a mere breath, and 
glory but a word of five letters. 

Dulness must not, however, be confounded with 
solid ability joined to a serious temper of mind. There 
is a mental, and there is a physical dulness of torpor. 
They may not exist together, though they usually do. 
Physicians tell us of the intimate connexion between 
the brain and the stomach — how a full diet may affect 
the poetic mind, and a thin one enlarge the dimensions 
of the understanding. A heavy look and manner may 
conceal a vigorous and active mind, a fancy " nimble, 
forgetive, and full of delectable shapes.'^ On the other 
hand, a prattling gossiping fellow, who appears "the 
soul of pleasure and the life of whim/' is stupid enough 
when his fictitious spirits desert him. Leave him to 
himself, he is a fashionable traveller wrecked on a 
desert island. It is only with others and in the midst 
of excitement he is endurable. He shines by reflection, 
and when the sun of others^ wit is set, is enveloped ia 
black night. 

The highest intellects have ever belonged to meni 
of an earnesti grave, and majestic character j who have 



58 ON DULL PEOPLE. 

also manifested strong traits of individuality, and a 
generous expansion of sentiment. The magnificent 
genius of Milton was totally deficient in wit and hu- 
mour, as we may easily see by his failures in the battle 
of the angels and the attacks on Salmasius. He had 
powers, however, far above those of the wittiest man, 
and could well afford to lack the lighter graces and 
weapons of ridicule and satire. A true poet frequently 
wants wit, since it is inconsistent with high imagination 
or deep feeling ; Shakspeare and a few others affording 
the exceptions which confirm the general principle. A 
great statesman also, though certainly much below a 
great poet, possesses qualities of mind strong and va- 
ried, and may be allowed unfitted for quick repartee or 
delicate allusion. We should neither conclude a man^s 
dulness from his indolent habits of mind, since they 
themselves are the barriers to his advancement, and to 
the manifestation of his real ability. It is wisest, there- 
fore, not to pronounce one dull till he has shown him- 
self egregiously so ; for the same reason that every 
person is entitled to be considered brave till he has 
pi'oved himself a coward. 



m 



NO. VII. 



ON WALKING THE STREETS. 

The streets present to our eyes a moving panorama. 
Fancy can hardly suggest spectacles more incongruous 
than the objects with which they are filled. To look 
around one from the corner of a street for a quarter of 
an hour, is fully equal to beholding a raree show or a 
dramatic performance. Every thing is alive : nothing- 
remains stationary, save here and there a small knot 
collected around a mob orator, who stands in the midst, 
on a hogshead ; or a few loiterers cheapening some 
apples or pears, at the tables of the fruit-women ; or a 
circle round a drunken man, who has fallen against 
the pavement ; or a person in a fit ; or a crazy woman ; 
or an Irish fight ; or a child that has lost its way ; or a 
rogue that has found his — to the temple of justice. 
Even in these collections there are many still moving 
off, whose places are filled up by others, and so on till 
all are dispersed. One may live in a large city all his 
life, and yet see a new set of faces every day. There 
are some few which he repeatedly meets, and after a 
while recognizes as old acquaintances, yet the majority 
are still changing. 

Let us look out and see what we can of the passing 



60 ON WALKING THE STREETS. 

scene. Yonder is a long procession of butchers, who 
are paying a sort of posthumous respect or funeral ob- 
sequies to the dead cattle, drawn and quartered, which 
they are gallanting along in solemn order. From out 
of that tall mansion, across the way, issues a long 
array of mourners. It is a funeral — one of those reliefs 
to the gayeties of life, without which the picture would 
be too light and gaudy. It throws, like the shadows 
in Rembrandt's pictures, a seasonable darkness and 
gravity over the otherwise gay and frivolous scene. 

The sound of the drum and "spirit-stirring fife" an- 
nounces a company of soldiers, all prankt in gay and 
martial attire, affording infinite delight to children and 
the rabble who troop after and before them in a spirit 
of emulation — ay ! and to wiser folks, too — shop-keep- 
ers and chambermaids, whose heads are seen peeping 
through the blinds and staring out of the open windows. 
A whoop and cry suddenly breaks on the ear, and 
"look out for the mad dog" resounds from a hundred 
mouths. The mad dog, apparently out of spite, bites 
the dogs in his way, and finally, either beaten or stoned 
to death, gives up the ghost in a neighbouring gutter. 

A volume might easily be filled with a series of street 
pictures. We must omit many ; but stop, however, to 
solicit a little attention to a very interesting portion of 
the dramatis personae : we mean beggars — not purely 
those by profession, (though even they have a claim 
upon us as representatives of an ancient nomadic race, 
to which they have become bound by custom,) but they 
who are incidentally such, as widows who cannot ob- 



ON WALKING THE STREETS. 61 

tain employment or support, orphans, the infirm, the 
aged, emigrants deluded from their homes, and the 
remaining sad catalogue. 

A little may afford great relief — the withholding it 
may drive to starvation and crime. Relieve every one 
and each of these, remembering the promise made to 
him " that giveth to the poor." 

The gait of different classes of individuals is worthy 
of observation. It has been said that no two persons 
walk alike. To observe thus is to consider too curi- 
ously ; certain it is, however, there are marked differ- 
ences in the carriage of different persons. The tailor 
is known by his stoop and bandy legs ; the jockey by 
his feeble and tottering step ; the sailor by his roll and 
swagger ; the beau by his solemn pace, as if stepping 
to the dead march ; the man of business by his quick 
shuffle and nervous anxiety ; the fine lady by her 
affected step, as if disdaining the earth she trod upon ; 
the milliner by her coquettish airs ; the gouty old gen- 
tlemen, hobbling and cursing at every step, and the fat 
market woman, who waddles along with a huge bas- 
ket on her arm. 

No one can avoid speculating on the faces and ap- 
pearances of those he meets with in the streets. The 
whole mass of persons form a picture of almost infinite 
detail, and an inexhaustible fund of amusement. The 
janty air of the man of fashion, the formal manner of 
the spruce apprentice, the stolid look of an over-fed 
alderman, are all characteristic. 

To walk perfectly at ease, and enjoy the full current 



62 ON WALKING THE STREETS-. 

of reflection, without any one to jostle or interrupt you, 
tread the pavement of some mighty thoroughfare at the 
silent hour of midnight, with the moon-wheehng on 
her course over your head, the whole city wrapped in 
slumber, and a death-like stillness pervading all things. 
This delicious quiet is superior to any day-scenes, save 
a fine Sunday morning in a beautiful part of the coun- 
try : a neat village, for instance, embosomed among 
lofty hills, whose sides are covered with forest trees, and 
w^hose tops project their bare and rugged summits high 
into the sky — a small church — the great wheel of the 
mill standing still — the cattle lolling in the noontide 
heat — the clear lake without a ripple — the gardens of 
the villagers, sending forth showers of perfume from 
their beds of flowers — the air calm as the breathing of 
a sleeping child, save when it is vexed by the drone of 
a bee, or the distant low of cattle. This is a scene for 
the landscape painter of the rarest skill and most poetic 
feeling. 



1 



NO. VIII. 

THE HOUSEWIFE: 

A CHARACTER. 

The housewife must be a middle-aged woman, and 
of a bustling disposition. In house-cleaning, a pecul- 
iar part of her vocation, she rises even to a pitch of en- 
thusiasm. This is no wise diminished by the pailsfull 
of cold water that she constantly lavishes in scrubbing 
and washing the woodwork. She must have Dutch 
blood in her veins, stimulated by her American birth 
and education, and crossed with Enghsh method and 
prudence. Her forte is dusting, for which she employs 
more old handkerchiefs and rags than would furnish 
out a picturesque army of beggars. She has a mat 
before every door, and allows none but guests and 
strangers to come in by the street steps. The family 
enter by the basement. She says she never cleans, 
but keeps clean. She will not suffer a crumb on the 
carpet nor a drop of tea on the table. A stain on the 
table-cloth is as bad as a stain upon her reputation. 
Her conscience is absolutely harrowing on these points. 
I once trod on a door-sill in her entry which had been 
newly painted, and this offence was not obliterated 
from her memory until long after it had vanished from 

6 



64 THE HOUSEWIFE. 

the floor under a fresh coat of paint — nay, T have little 
doubt she remembers it still to my disadvantage. 

She generally lives in the poorest room of the house, 
under the disinterested plea of saving her fine furniture 
for company. When she has friends to tea she is very 
fidgety about having the chairs removed out of their 
places. In the midst of the parlor stands a table cov- 
ered with elegantly bound books and fine engravings, 
which it is treason to touch or open. She has a keen 
eye for finger-prints on doors near the handles, and 
traces of one's feet on a newly-washed stoop. She is 
a great admirer of Mrs. Glasse, and keeps a large book 
full of receipts and directions. She is a capital fancy 
cook and confectioner, and can make a blanc-mange 
or jelly equal to a professed artist. A fine stirring 
housekeeper she esteems the perfection of her sex. 
Her carpets are covered with baize, and her lamps and 
glasses with paper, to keep off the flies. She is partic- 
ularly careful about fires and candles, and goes about 
the last thing at night, to see that all in the house are 
put out. The servants often grumble at this inspec- 
tion. It is a maxim with her, that not one person in 
a hundred can carry a candle straight. When her 
friends bring children to the house she is in an agony 
lest they break the jars or throw balls through the 
windows. To speak the truth, she is otherwise very 
kind to them, stufiing their pockets with dough-nuts 
and crullers worth)?' of her Dutch grandmother. 

On Sundays she stays at home, and sends the ser- 
vants to church. In her person she is invariably neat 



THE HOUSEWIFE. (J5 

and tidy, unlike that boastful woman who told her 
one day, " My dear Kitty, I'm the only thing in my 
house that is not as clean as wax," to which she made 
answer, in a dignified manner, " I think, Mrs. A., you 
ought rather to reverse your attention, if it is impossible 
both should be clean." She loves to keep old family 
and personal relics, old linen, fashionable dresses when 
she was a belle (forty years back,) old china, glasses, 
silver mugs, curious coins, painted tumblers, and such 
hke closet antiquities. She exhibits her affection in 
keeping locks of hair and pulled teeth of her relatives 
and acquaintance. If she is musical, she keeps a col- 
lection of old music, where the latest piece is one of 
Burn's fine songs. Her piano is crazy from age, and 
out of tune ; her harp has two or three strings broken, 
and her flageolet is cracked like her natural voice. 
She has her hair dyed, and wears a set of false teeth. 
Her natural vanity not allowing her to wear spectacles, 
she complains of being fashionably near-sighted. Oth- 
erwise she preserves her looks very well, and is quite a 
fine looking woman. 

Her talk is almost entirely with ladies of her own 
stamp, about servants, dresses, dishes, children and 
furniture. She often asks Mrs. Siddons' question of 
the linen-draper, though in a more familiar tone, " Will 
it wash?" She prefers, nevertheless, taking a hand at 
piquet or backgammon, to spending the evening in 
conversation. I should not be surprised if at this very 
moment she was innocently dehghted at having made 
a hit — I am sure I hope / have, in my portrait of her. 



NO. IX 



READING AND STUDY. 

The main distinction between reading and study 
is, that the latter is generally regarded as synonymous 
with labour and attention, while the former is under- 
stood rather as a relaxation from business or profes- 
sional cares, than as a source of elegant gratification. 
Now we think, despite of the slurs cast upon that libe- 
ral minded and truly intelligent class of readers com- 
monly called " general readers," there is no body of 
men to whom an author of genius and elegance can 
more appropriately address himself. The term " gen- 
eral reader" is in very low esteem w^ith those scientific 
or professional pedants who, confined in their studies 
merely to professional topics, have not comprehension 
of mind or elegance of taste enough to relish any thing 
beyond their accustomed round. The mind of one of 
those excluded from general information by devotion. 
to one science, something resembles the lady in the 
Italian tale, who, wishing to hide herself in sport fronj.: 
her lover, took refuge in a chest, the lock of which 
shutting on the outside, it became a living tomb. Thus 
these narrow-minded cavilers at versatility, embalming 
themselves in their favourite subjects, become intellect,- 



READING AND STUDY. 67 

ually dead, as regards the external world and familiar 
things. 

There is nothing so dehghtful (not to mention its 
advantages) as desultory reading. It is detached from 
all system and scholastic restraint. The mind is 
"studious of change;" it hates regularity always. 
There are times and occasions when method is an 
essential virtue; ; in our recreations, however, it is a 
complete damper — it chills enthusiasm and disperses 
the fine thoughts of genius. Besides, in the present 
state of society, we must be encyclopaedical in our ac- 
quirements ; it will not answer for a man to be deep (as 
it is styled, which after all means dull and prosy) on a 
single subject. He must have much and varied 
knowledge of many things. The mere anything, 
now-a-days, is entirely out of place. Even a poet must 
be in some measure a man of the world. How, we 
would ask these learned philosophers, would it look in 
a company of some dozen persons, if every man had a 
distinct profession, art or trade, and knew nothing else? 
The poet and the merchant, the lawyer and the orator 
and the dominie, the painter and the chemist would 
be entirely at loggerheads. Let a man follow a grand 
object if he will, and aim at perfection in it ; but let 
him not reject other and perhaps more excellent ac- 
€|uirements. This is perhaps the strongest argument 
to be brought against the classics, for they, of all other 
studies, demand a minute attention and thorough sur- 
render of time and talent. Hence we rarely see a pure 
cia&sical scholar at all acquainted with the various lit€s 



68 READING AND STUDY. 

ratnre of the moderns — with the literature of his own 
country — least of all, with the literature and wisdom of 
the old masters in our early tongue. 

Theologians are a fair instance of the effect of one 
pursuit. They are (to speak of them as a class) the 
dullest of mortals, knowing notliing, or next to nothing, 
of literature, art, hfe and character. These men are 
the moles of literature, always grubbing their way amid 
dark, unprofitable and stupifying studies. 

Lawyers are very different from these, young ones 
especially. Perhaps there is no one profession which 
embraces so much talent, clearness and taste in elegant 
matters, with gentlemanly feeling, as the Law. Much 
leisure, with their natural inclination, leads them to 
these pursuits ; but wearisome plodders, who can climb 
up the high road to Learning's temple with slow and 
heavy step, having neither the wings of the poet, nor 
the lightness of the prose writer, nor the energy of the 
orator, are the bane and pest of letters. 

" Study is like heaven's glorious sun,. 

That will not be deep searched by saucy looks; 
Small have continual plodders ever won, 

Save bare authority from^ others' books," 

is the opinion of the greatest master of character, as 
well as the profoundest philosopher and the finest poet 
that ever lived. Scholars, however,, have in general a 
higher opinion of one who can defend a moral com- 
monplace by his quotations, than of him who brings 
©ut from "the coinage of his brain" sentences, equally 
fine, of home manufacture.. 



READING AISTD STUDY. 69 

" I seek," says one with equal frankness and wisdom, 
" in the reading of books, only to please myself by an 
irreproachable diversion ; or if I study, it is for no other 
science than what treats of the knowledge of myself, 
and instructs me how to live and die well." A most 
admirable remark indeed ! in this world, where so 
many and so great subjects draw off our attention from 
the study of the most important subjects — our own 
minds and hearts. This " half good fellow, half gos- 
sip," goes on to say, " I do not bite my nails about the 
difficulties I meet with in my reading ; after a charge. 
or two 1 give them over. Should I insist upon them I 
should both lose myself and time ; for I have an impa- 
tient understanding that must be satisfied at first." If 
this confession be not good advice, we know not what 
is. In reading, if we cannot "after a charge or two," 
master the author's meaning — provided we be capable 
of so doing — we may rest assured it is not worth our 
while. The purest writers are the most perspicuous, 
and when a great man declares himself obscurely we 
may take it for granted that he is in a fog himself. 
What Montaigne styles his "impatient understand- 
ing," is a keenness of perception and quickness of judg- 
ment which can master the most intricate subject with 
little trouble. 

The great advantage of miscellaneous and desultory 
reading is, that it prevents the mind from becoming 
cramped by any particular set of notions, or chained 
down to one topic. It evinces the same influence a& 
tihe wisest philosophy, and breathes a similar spirit.. 



70 READING AND STUDY. 

This is a total freedom from dogmatism which may- 
run into scepticism, but which is more Hkely to produce 
that equable state of mind and of opinion which is the 
heaven of the scholar. Let us not forget that this state 
of mind must not be applied to matters of business or 
of determinate action, but for the man of letters and 
the author, it presents a picture on which he could 
gaze for ever with delight, dreaming away his exist- 
ence like the elegant and luxurious Gray, who thought 
it the height of happiness " to lie on a sofa and read 
new novels." We agree most heartily with him in all 
this, save the last, and for which we would substitute 
poems ► 



NO. X. 



ON THE VALUE OF METAPHYSICAL 
STUDIES. 

The true estimate of metaphysics, considered apart 
from its applications to ethics, logic, or criticism, has 
scarcely, we think, been rightly considered. Mere 
speculatists have on the one hand elevated this science 
to an undue height; while on the other, men of busi- 
ness and of the world have been too apt to regard it as 
a pursuit of little or no utility. The latter have been 
disgusted by subtleties to which their intellects may not 
have been always equal, and by refinements of the 
understanding, in unravelling which they could discern 
no real profit. The bare generahties thrown out indis- 
criminately by mere metaphysicians in every company 
(and most frequently in companies where they could 
never be appreciated) have tended towards creating a 
general dislike to them, and in this way, the study 
which of all others deserves the highest attention of the 
true philosopher, has been cast into contempt by the 
unadvised conduct of its professors. 

The philosophy of mind lies at the base of all know- 
ledge. It has for its object the ascertaining the facul- 



72 ON THE VALUE OF 

ties of the mind, their nature and force, in what degree 
and to what extent they may be cultivated, how error 
may be eradicated and truth instilled, in what the first 
principles of all truth consist, and what the functions 
of the soul may be. Besides these, it investigates the 
traits of character and motives to action, the feehng of 
beauty and the perception of every species of excellence. 
It affords some of the best arguments in defence of the 
Christian religion, and furnishes a clue to the noblest 
sentiments of virtue. 

The greatest benefit, however, accruing to the meta- 
physician is the insight into his own mind and feelings, 
whereby he obtains the greatest of all treasures — self- 
knowledge. It is this will guide him in the fit direc- 
tion of his powers, expose his deficiencies, exhibit his 
individuality, and manifest the bent of his disposition 
and character. 

Another, is the acuteness and perspicuity imparted 
to the perceptive faculty by frequent exercise. And 
this prevails not only in metaphysical subjects, but 
also in all the affairs of life, and in reasonings on all 
other questions. 

It further begets a love of philosophizing on all sub- 
jects, enlarges the liberality of our views, and widens 
our comprehension. 

It colours every topic, and throws a new light upon 
what was before dark and confused. 

The logical faculty — that great index of the soul — is 
also vastly improved by these studies ; it is rendered 
subtler, and sharper, and readier. The employment 



METAPHYSICAL STUDIES. 73 

ef analysis developes powers of wfiich we were hardly 
conscious, and compresses scattered facts and opinions 
into eternal and immutable truths. And here is seen 
the superiority of metaphysical over mathematical stu- 
dies, as an exercise of the reason. The objects of the 
former are of far greater importance, and this alone is 
sufficient to prove our position ; the latter having refer- 
ence to lines, and figures, and numbers, while the for- 
mer is employed in investigating the furniture of the 
noblest production God ever made — that of the human 
mind. The effect of mathematics is to make the mind 
hard, rigid, and stubborn, pliable to no demonstration 
but that which is purely scientific and exact. The 
effect of metaphysics, on the contrary, is to open and 
expand all our powers of speculation and argument. 
In regard to many topics it admits of testimony less 
fallible than that of the senses or of mathematical de- 
monstration. It recognises ideas hanging sometimes 
on a mere thread of conjecture, and is cautious not to 
break it, since they may reveal truths the exactest sci- 
ence could never discover. 

The pursuit of metaphysics exclusively for a long 
time must needs be hurtful to the understanding : but, 
in connection with language, criticism, or ethics, its 
practical bearing is of the highest value. 

All great poets are of necessity metaphysicians, for 
they feel acutely and reflect deeply on their own nature 
and the natures of their fellow-men — on the springs of 
action as evinced in the characters of those around 
them — on their own ideas of supreme goodness and 



74 METAPHYSICAL STUDIES. 

perfect purity, and on the forms and shapes of intellec- 
tual as well as physical beauty. 

After a regular course, then, of purely metaphysical 
writers, it is both delightful and useful to read the great 
poets, as their true masters and best expounders. 



^O, XI 



MALE SCOLDS. 



The species of eloquence most cultivated and gen- 
eral, is the objurgatory. When every thing else fails, 
this is ever ready and in good favour. It is common 
to confine this talent to the softer sex; but such a view 
is too restricted, and by no means fair: yet, the Com- 
mon Law supposed it to be their peculiar property — the 
common scold, ^^ communis vixatrix^^'' was in every 
instance of the feminine gender — so much the more 
disagreeable and unfitting does it appear in man. It 
is as if he should borrow the woman's dress as well as 
the woman's prerogative. 

A male scold is one of the most hateful creatures in 
social intercourse. He undertakes to lecture every 
person he come across, without respect to age, talents, 
or station. He speaks in threats and censures. Hav- 
ing conceived the idea that carping is acute criticism, 
he expresses dissatisfaction at every thing. He fumes 
all day long like a little household shrew. He is con- 
tinually the iEolus of some domestic tempest. When 
he does not speak out, he endeavours to put one down 
by a frown or a sneer. He is the cur of conversation, 
ever snarling. He laughs at no jests, and calls pathos 



76 MALE SCOLDS. 

drivelling. He is without any sentiment whatever. 
He is (if of a literary turn) a critic of the severe order, 
and delights in controversy ; indeed, he has no idea of 
composition except as a medium of attack and defence. 
This kind of writing alone, he thinks, brings a man 
out. He is consequently a vast adm.irer of Cobbett, 
and places Junius at the head of English prose. He 
thinks to be regarded only by being bearish, and piques 
himself on the intractability of his humours. He loves 

to hear it said of him, " Mr. is a very particular 

man, and you must study his whims if you wo dd get 
into hi^ good graces." His spleen is his better genius. 
He is quite in his element in finding faults, but inade- 
quate to any sincere etdogy. He cannot for the very 
life of him turn a compliment pleasantly. If he can 
gain attention by his rudeness he is content. He 
wishes to be esteemed very nice and fastidious, and 
prides himself on an exquisite taste. Wisdom and the 
habit of unvarying censure are the same in his vocab- 
ulary. He reproves a gay countenance with becoming 
severity. The humourous man he calls " a good fel- 
low, but rather weak." He forgets the fine old stave, 

" The goodness that would make us grave, 

Is but an empty thing ; 
What more than mirth would mortals have': 

A cheerful man's a king," — 

or cannot appreciate the truth of it. Relaxation he 
esleems highly unbecoming and undignified. He lays 
vast stress on that hollow mask of wisdom (so imposing 
in the eyes of the vulgar) animal dignity. As the 



MALE SCOLDS. 77' 

world standsy perhaps, one must occasionally give in to 
this system of behaviour. A wise man among fools 
must sometimes assume their deportment. 

He acts the part of Bruin* to his wife, and is the 
perpetual torment of her existence. He comes in to 
his dinner, tastes and pishes at every thing. He turns 
up his nose at the best prepared dishes, and exclaims, 
" his partialities are never consulted." He is a very 
tyrant over his whole household. His children, from 
dreading, get to hating, and end by despising him. He 
lectures them all round for the slightest breach of the 
laws of etiquette. These are more sacred in his eyes 
than the Ten Commandments or the Laws of the 
Twelve Tables. He is a Sir Anthony Absolute to his 
sons, and always speaks to them in the imperative 
mood. He takes his servants to task before company, 
to impress them with an idea of his authority. He 
will never hear an answer or excuse. He is the high- 
est tribunal, from which there is no appeal. In criti- 
cising an author, he is sure to fasten on the minutest 
defects, and is blind to true excellence. He lights on 
the most impure parts, like the carrion crow. He ad- 
mires Gifford hugely, who was a man after his own 
heart. When not employed in reproof he is then a 
dumb dog that can only snap and show his teeth. 

It is a boast of his, that he always speaks out his 
mind plainly on every occasion — he means in the way 
of dispraise — and arrogates it to himself as a great 

♦ M^yor of Garratt. 



78 MALE SCOLDS* 

merit. This is a most silly device, and the sure mark 
of a coward. He fears &iich an imputation, and thinks 
an exhibition of spleen will exonerate him from it. 
He is skilful in a warfare of words, but sinks with 
dread uiider the fear of blows. He acts on the prin- 
ciple of frightening people by face-making and calling 
hard names. But this method won't work with every 
one. Thersites is his favourite Homeric character, and 
his great aim is to rival him in foul-mouthed eloquence. 

To take pleasure in giving pain — to court opportu-^ 
nities for censure, and hunt for occasions of giving 
unasked advice, are certain evidences of a contemptr 
ible spirit. To perform these offices in the proper 
manner, is, of itself, a matter of rare tact and con- 
siderable nicety. One apology, only, can be offered 
for such people, which is, that having been disappoint- 
ed themselves in their plans of life, they take revenge 
by endeavouring to make people dissatisfied with them- 
selves and each other — fostering bad feeling,, to have 
companions ia misfortune. Sometimes this habit is 
the offspring of an irritable temperament — more fre- 
quently of long indulgence and custom. 

I wonder that neither Addison nor Steele ever de- 
lineated a character of this description. It lay entirely 
within their province of observation, and they must 
have known persons of this sort. Artificial life they 
knew thoroughly : the male coquette, the beau and 
his co-mates, the pretty fellow, the rake, &c., all came 
under their vigilant observation. The male scold only 
seems to have escaped it. Perhaps they fell into the 



MALE SCOLDS. 79 

general notion of appropriating the title of scold to 
their sister woman alone ; or they may have consid- 
ered a man exercising the same talent to be an orator 
of the higher class, ranking with the Satirist and the 
Censor. 



7t 



NO. XII. 



THE SEXTON. 



A CHARACTER. 



The Sexton should be a man of staid and solemn 
aspect, not over-gay, but rather given to melancholy 
and gloom. Shakspeare exhibits him in Hamlet, a 
merry wag ; but this is a freak of his great genius. 
Steele hit nearer the mark, when he represented his 
undertaker, (who is often a sexton,) lecturing his hired 
mutes on the propriety of their behaviour at funerals. 
Lamb calls him " bedmaker to the dead." Perhaps he 
might be as fitly named " an earthly upholsterer." 

He should be a severe man, except when bustling 
about the rooms before the funeral procession is ready 
to move — otherwise sparing of his works, and medita- 
tive — neat in his dress and decorous in manner. He 
ought to be fond of serious reading, chiefly of divines. 
He has ample opportunity for criticising every variety 
of contempory preaching. He is fond of church music, 
re-velling in the chime of bells,* and ha& an especially 
fiine ear for the saddest music in the world, L e., the 
fall of the dust on the coffin «. His thoughts should be 

* Felix Merry has, in his third Fireside Essay, " The Chime of 
5elb," handled this fine theme in an accordant spirit ^ove eulogy.. 



THE SEXTON. 81 

dark and murky, like the black air of a vault. His 
frequent descent into such places gives him rheumatic 
pains, which^ martyr-like^ he endures as professional 
evils. He is attached to fine linen, and loves nothing 
better than a handsome suit of grave clothes. He has 
an old-fashioned partiality for the rod, and gives the 
younger portion of the congregation sundry intimations 
of his skill in applying it. He is also peculiarly great 
in a frown or awful nod. He takes a stranger up the 
aisle with all the formality of a Presbyterian deacon. 
Nothing pleases him more, however, than to stop him, 
to speak in his ear during his perambulations around 
the church. On a public occasion, he sits (Janitor) at 
the church door stately enough, refusing admittance to 
all not possessed of tickets. This is some week-day 
festival or celebration. A slight douceur will, however, 
procure your admittance through the densest mass. 
He has the highest opinion of the Pastor and the 
Vestry. The Wardens are his Castor and Pollux, and 
the Choir his angelic host. He is Death^s valet or gen- 
tleman of the bed-chamber — chamberlainr and master 
of the wardrobe. — A necessary man, and if you treat 
him well, grateful. 



NO. xiir. 



THE LINGUIST. 



A CHARACTER. 



The Linguist is a creature all tongue^ without " a 
garnish of brains :" or rather, he has the gift of the 
tongues. He could have set them all right at Babel, 
had he been living at the time of the Great Confusion. 
Charles Y. proved himself no very sagacious critic, 
when he said, " lie that could speak five languages 
was five times a man." Suppose he could say nothing 
of consequence in any one dialect; — even allowing, 
however, his sense to be weighty, is it improved by 
passing through the strainers of five different national 
idioms 1 Is it not at least probable that alone would 
have perverted the original meaning ? The greatest 
thinker that ever lived could think in one language 
only ; for if he pretended to speculate in another, it 
must have been as a mere translator of his first 
thoughts. These always are formed in the mother 
tongue. But this is irrelevant. In point of fact, our 
linguist regards language, the symbol of thought, as 
equally important with, or perhaps more important 
than, the thought itself A long and intimate ac- 
quaintance with literary history and the arts of com- 



THE LINGUIST. 83 

position, inclines one to rate expressio7i and style a 
great deal too highly. Indeed, some have gone so far 
as to say that style alone preserved an author. One 
who is for ever turning over lexicons, grammars, vo- 
cabularies, tables of roots, (fee. (fcc, cannot fail to form 
a very extravagant estimate of philological studies. 
Such a person becomes, from long habit and intolera- 
ble prejudice, cramped and confined in all his ideas, 
and is gradually transformed into a perfect Polyglot. 
He might be bound " in congenial calf," a terror to all 
similar offenders. His ideas are arrayed in tables of 
contents, and his writings are indexes. His highest 
literary attempts are notes, emendations, scholia, glosses. 
He corrects misspellings and errors in punctuation. By 
his blundering, he often spoils a fine passage. Fitz 
Osborne's satirical hit on " tweedledum and twedledee" 
is very fair and in point. To edit a classic tops the 
bent of his ambition. He is besides, a powerful writer 
of prefaces and introductions. In regard to profit, he 
clears more from a spelling-book than the first poet of 
the age for his finest work. The editors of Horace 
alone have fattened where their great original starved. 
He will spend hours in searching for a preposition, or 
chasing an adverb through successive editions, and yet 
censure the modern Nimrod. He professes no charity for 
poetical reveries. He takes more delight in the muddy 
crudites of Lycophron than in the clear beauties of the 
silver Virgil. The more trivial and obscure an ancient 
author is, the more he reveres him. He might some- 
tofis write even better himself in the same strain ; 



84 THE LINGUIST. 

especially if his idol be crabbed and musty. His taste 
is most depraved. I knew one, before whom was 
placed a Persian grammar and a volume of Irving, 
who studied the former with undisguised pleasure, but 
threw aside the latter as a mere child's book. The 
senseless classifications and absurd theories of affilia- 
tion of languages, and all such pedantic trumpery, 
were forsooth of greater mark than refined satire, pic- 
turesque description, a rich vein of mascuhne humour, 
and the utmost grace of style. I suppose he would 
have preferred Warburton or Parr to the glorious 
Shakspeare. He had rather read, as some literary 
glutton honestly confessed, a criticism on Homer, than, 
Homer himself. His contempt of the moderns is so 
great, he can only converse with the ancients. His 
appetite for the latter is voracious, and by no means 
fastidious ; for the former, his stomach is very squeam- 
ish. He can, like certain epicures, relish only what is 
past eating in the opinion of every body else. His 
style of discourse is described by Butler with admirable 
effect I 

"A Babylonish dialect, 
Which learned pedants most affect ; 
'Twas English, cut on Greek and Latin, 
As fustian heretofore on satin,"" &c. 

His plainest English is most execrable Latin. He 
teaches his little daughter Latin, and has his sons 
" well seen" in Greek and Hebrew. Perhaps he for- 
gets where Hebrew roots grow, and in what soil they 
flourish best. 

The head of a Polyglot may be compared to et 



THE LINGUIST. 85 

pawnbroker's shop, where you may find every variety 
of dress, but tarnished, and in a state of dilapidation. 
He knows the exterior sign of every language, but has 
never penetrated the interior signification of any one. 
He apes the manners of the ancients, as a footman his 
master's air. The Dinner of the ancients is a capital 
satire on this propensity. He cannot ask for a glass 
of cold water, without introducing the "fontes Bandu- 
siee," or the Pierian Spring ; nor help a friend to bread 
at table, without a pun on Pan. 

He has his pet letters — vowels and consonants, and 
will sometimes array them in mimic battle against 
each other. To some he is indifferent, to others he 
bears a grudge ; — rainy-day letters and hohday fa- 
vourites. In his opinion, a h and c are worth their 
weight in gold ; while x y and z are comparatively 
worthless and inefficient. 

He is, in the most liberal acceptation, a man of let- 
ters. While we speak thus of the mere philologist, 
we would by no means intend to underrate the benefit 
derived from the study of other languages beside our 
mother tongue. Indeed, we can never hope to appre- 
ciate its beauties precisely, without a comparative refer- 
ence to the languages of other nations and countries. 
The only evil arises from constantly dwelling upon 
mere signs, without gaining the substance. After a 
certain period of life, we must look more to things and 
less to words. It is then, an undue attention to the 
study of languages is censurable in the extreme. 

Languages are highly useful to commercial, and 



THE LINGUIST. 



interesting to literary men. Many tongues are not 
only unnecessary, but even hurtful to the mind. Could 
a man of elegant taste be improved by the acquisition 
of Chaldee or Turkish ? The learned professions re- 
quire learned men ; and, to a certain extent, repulsive 
studies are proper to be followed. Languages are the 
keys of learning; they serve to open its stores and 
unlock its treasures ; they serve to embalm ideas, and 
render images and sentiments eternal. All this they 
can do ; still they are but the willing servitors of 
thought, and must not presume a rivalry. Indepen- 
dent of sense and meaning, they are more worthless 
than tinkling cymbals. Jrined to sense and meaning, 
they can shadow forth the finest essence of intellect, 
and mysteriously unveil the immortal glories of the 
souL 



NO. XIV, 



THE ITALIAN OPERA. 

The Opera is the last refinement of Musical Sci- 
ence. It has carried the most delightful of the Arts to 
an unnatural pitch of perfection. It has destroyed (in 
all those who cultivate it) a taste for the pure, simple 
and unobtrusive beauties of Music, " while, heavenly 
maid, she [yet] was young," and introduced a love for 
exhibitions of mere skill and ingenuity. The enjoy- 
ment of the Ballad, the artless strain of former days ; 
the hearty relish of the fine old songs of England and 
Scotland : the noble music of our venerated ecclesias- 
tical mother ; the sweet hymn (the pious embodiment 
of devotional melody) — all, all are gone, and in their 
place we have the warbling plaint, the long-drav/n sigh, 
the up-trilled treble, the deep grunting bass, the falsetto, 
the cantata, the bravura, the scena, the solo, the duett, 
the quartette, the chorus, and heaven knows what, of 
madness in Music and harshness in Harmony. 

Among a people of strong sense and keen discern- 
ment the Opera can never become a pennanent na- 
tional amusement. The cases of England and our 
own country prove this sufficiently. In Italy and sim- 
ilar countries where the mind is enervated by climate 

8 



88 THE ITALIAN OPERA. 

and luxurious indolence, mere sounds take precedence 
of sense. In the former, however, the melody must be 
an echo of the sentiment, deep-seated, and struggling 
for expression. 

What is the Opera ? Why, a sort of middle estate 
between the Melo-drama'and the Concert. It resem- 
bles nothing in nature — 'tis neither Comedy, nor Tra- 
gedy, nor Farce. Each of these have their counter- 
part in " this living, breathing world." The Opera is 
a sort of composite of the three, and of the most indif- 
ferent parts of the three. It has none of the light ele- 
gance of the first, nor the sublime energy of the second, 
nor the broad humor of the third. The Itahans seem 
utterly deficient in wit and humor, unless of the gro- 
tesque sort, as well as in a severe sublimity and daring 
flights. To this last remark their great poets are un- 
doubtedly exceptions — but we were speaking of their 
Opera. Their comic attempts descend into and seldom 
rise above fantastic buffoonery, and their flights of ima- 
gination are mere melo-dramatic bombast. And then 
their presumption — only to think of Othello being con- 
verted into an Opera ! 

The mere music of these Operas is frequently very 
fine — but what is the dramatic interest? What is 
represented on the stage should have a dramatic inte- 
rest, else why bring it on the stage at all 1 If singing 
alone or mimicking, a room will answer as well or 
better. The very object of the stage is " room to bustle 
in." If there is no action, or very little, no room for 
display is wanted. There is but little action in the 



THE ITALIAN OPERA. 89 

Opera — no character, with any traits of consequence 
— no dialogue. What, then, is there? Notes, bars 
of music, the gamut, vocal sounds. The unnatural 
recitative, neither speaking nor singing — the dwelling 
upon the slightest things with an emphasis as earnest 
as on the greatest — the complete sameness of manner, 
varied only by a vicious extravagance of gesture and 
expression, and the interminable choruses, deprive the 
Opera of all interest, in our eyes. 

To relish the best Operas, neither understanding nor 
heart is at all necessary, for neither are addressed. 
What pathos there is in some is totally lost in an eager 
desire for display. To give the singer a chance, the 
incidents must be stopped and the story stand still — a 
drag is to be put upon the wheels of the Car of Melody. 
An aria is more important than an action ; and bravery 
is less effective than a bravura. Dramatic illusion there 
IS none, or, if any, of the most improbable kind. We 
have devils in hell, as in Der Freischutz ; or we see 
the Oriental Brahma ascending to heaven, in the Bay- 
adere ; or the dead are raised to view in their shrouds 
and coffins, in Robert the Devil. The characters are 
without variety. Heroes, lovers, tyrants, dancing girls, 
peasants, princes, form the whole dramatis personse, 
and '^exuno disee omnes" — all alike. There is no 
discrimination — no shading. 

We are willing to confess ourselves lovers of every 
species of music — even of operatic music in modera- 
tion ; but at the same time we interpose that to sit for 
three or four hours to hear a set of fellows (generally 



90> THE ITALIAN OPERA, 

poor actors) squalling, screeching, grunting, grumblings 
groaning, hissing, hooting and playing all manner of 
tricks with their voices, is one of the most vexatious 
things in the world. To hear that beautiful art sa 
bedeviled and reviled by its professors is enough ta 
make one sick of music for ever. AVhat can be more 
delicious than a charming song of Burns', expres^sive 
of love and the tenderest gallantry? Amortriumphans 
is here sung in a right masterly strain ; but love in an 
Italian Opera is generally a hot-house flower, which 
dies on exposure to the air. What patriotic effusions 
kindle generous fire quicker than the pieces of that 
class by the same author ? Among the Italians, this 
public virtue exists but in name. Music, soft, artful 
and effeminate like theirs, flourishes only in despotic 
governments. The free air of Liberty alone can inspire 
such strains as " Scots wha ha' wi' Wallace bled," and 
"Ye Mariners of England." America should for this 
reason be the land of the patriotic lyre. We have had 
few spirit-stirring tones so far, but the full force of the 
instrument will one day be wakened by some master 
hand. 

In a word, we do not wonder at the " bad success'' 
of the Italian Opera here, since the defects which strike 
us as insuperable to its advancement, are inherent in 
its very nature. Let us, then, "chaunt the old heroic 
ditty o'er;" let us have the gay song, the soothing 
hymn ; but for the Opera, let us have none of it. May 
Burns, Percy, Moore, Heber, and a host of sweet lyrists, 
be cherished. Of Rossini, Bellini, Cimaroza, &c. <&c.3. 



THE ITALIAN OPERA. 91 

we would hear their overtures, grand and stirring as 
they are — their barcarolesj soft as the breathing of Do- 
rian flutes — their dashing bravuras, singly or a few 
together — but from a long Opera, comic or tragic, reci- 
ted or sung, heaven defend us ! We must except from 
this censure the finest Italian Operas which have been 
well translated, and as sung by fine English vocalists, 
and also the late admirable Opera by Mr. Rooke ; and 
further, the few English productions which go under 
that name- as the Beggar's Opera, Love in a Village, 
the Duenna, and a few others. These are just the 
thing. The dialogue in tbem is neat, spirited, and 
witty, and there is enough of character and action for 
a light comedy. Give us, then, a good comic English 
Opera, or else give us an Opei-a containing juster senti- 
ment, sweeter songs, finer hits at character, and a 
manlier style of writing, than Love in a Village, if ye 
can — else we want none of your Italian Music, ye 
" fanaticos per la musica" I 



m 



NO. XT. 



THE MODERN POLITICIAN. 

A CHARACTER. 

The modern politician is a very scurvy sort of fel- 
low. He is the old-fasliioned statesman in liis lowest 
estate, an image of fallen greatness, shorn of his beams. 
The sun of his glory is set, and his path is illumined 
only by the flickering light of intrigue and cunning. 
It is a noted saying of the great Lexicographer, that 
" Patriotism is the last resort of a scoundrel." This is 
true in the present sense of the phrase, for is not patri- 
otism, now, a mere mask, a name 7 It is very far from 
true, however, in the correct meaning of the term. In 
the real view of things, politics is a science of great dig- 
nity, worth and usefulness, and requiring, in the prac- 
tical part of it, the most consummate tact and nicety. 
It requires great knowledge, both of facts and opinions; 
of persons, their characters and manners and motives j 
a comprehensive judgment, firm principles, unswerving 
integrity, a lofty tone of thought and action, far-reach- 
ing views, keen penetration. To make the character 
complete, the accomplishments of the polite gentleman, 
the resources of the hard student, and the eloquence of 
the practised orator,, should be united. Nor are all these 



THE MODERN POLITICIAN. 93^ 

worth any thing to the possessor, if he do not superadd 
to them the quahties of a manly character :. honesty, 
moral courage, humanity, justice. No trimmer, no 
party man ; but a stiff-necked patriot of the times of 
Cromwell and our own Revolution. 

This character has gone q»iite out of fashion. It is 
sneered at, at present, as out of date, and behind the 
spirit of the age. It is certainly ill-suited to the cur- 
rent state of things, being too unbending, strict and rig- 
orous, to find favour with the complaisant, fawning 
myrmidons of popular power. It wants the urbane 
spirit of the coui teous demagogue, the supple policy 
of the hireling courtier. 

The modern politician is a man without indepen- 
dence of opinion, or freedom of will. He is a practical 
fatalist, a philosophical necessitarian — obliged to act, 
think, and speak exactly in the spirit, according to the 
views, and in tlie very phraseology, of his party. He 
is, politically, an infant after the age of twenty-one 
years, never attaining to maturity of judgment in the 
eyes of party. If he once presumes to set up the keel 
of the political ves>el, in ever so slightly a different 
course he is turned off for ever as a mutinous sailor. 
He must follow in the wake of the party, or he 
founders on the rocks of opinion. 

Is he a speaker ? Then you may know just what 
he will say on any given occasion. Is he none '^ Then 
you may, instead^ recognise his hurrah in a crowd ; 
may see him holding banners, or escorting great men ; 
a complete servant of the sovereign people. If a work- 



"94 THE MODERN POLITICIAN". 

ing-member of the body politic, you may find his chief 
duties to consist in counting votes, handing out tickets, 
marching and riding to and fro, during an election; or 
at other times, dining in public with great men, " the 
roses and fair expectancies of the state," Hiding suns^ 
toasting absent personages of official dignity and real 
meanness, and making himself drunk in the operation. 
Nor is the modern politician bound only to govern 
his own conduct according to the directions of his party ; 
but also he is bound boldly to defend their every plan, 
system, and design. Thus he is not only a time-server 
himself, but a wretched sophist in palliating the time- 
serving of others. He lives but in the popular breath, 
and his very existence hangs on the irregular pulsa- 
tions of the mob. So miserable a slave is he, who gives 
himself up to other men's uses, and deprives himself 
cxf the free agency of a Patriot and a Man ! 



NO. XVI 



THE FAMILIAR PHILOSOPHY. 

Notwithstanding the numerous divisions of phi- 
losophy, there yet remains one. simpler than any yet 
suggested. It is two-fold, and separates the whole into 
the abstract and the famihar. The one has been 
wire-drawn in the discussions of metaphysicians, while 
the other, though current in every age, is little talked 
of, still less defended by the writings of its adherents. 
A class of men. however, more numerous than the 
ancient philosophers or their modern successors, have 
made it their rule and standard of action. It consists 
mainly in cheating life of its ills, by cherishing the illu- 
sions of fancy until they ripen almost into realities — 
mingling gay colours with the melancholy aspects 
of Fortune, and bearing with a cheerful face and 
gay heart the rude jogs and mischances a traveller 
must expect to meet with on the journey of life. Ife 
takes another form when it looks on self-love, and cul- 
tivates its own interests amid the selfishness of the 
world. It then calls into exercise a talent which, al- 
though not of the loftiest character, is still the most 
useful ; the clear and quick perception, united to sound 
§^nse, which we commonly term shrewdness. There 



96 THE FAMILIAR PHILOSOPHY. 

^ is no faculty so readily appreciated as this, when exer- 
cised in penetrating the actions and characters of man- 
kind. It is of admirable use in the business concerns 
of life, but not at all fitted for higher duties. An union 
of shrewdness and of pathetic power is the mark of a 
truly great genius ; for in this case what would other- 
wise degenerate into mere cunning, when occupied on 
themes of deep interest and elevated by an entirely 
opposite and nobler quality, rises in the scale of intel- 
lectual excellence, and the specious rogue becomes a 
Scott or a Shakspeare. 

The majority of authors who have secured for them- 
selves a niche in the Temple of Fame have been 
masters of the Familiar Philosophy, and in this have 
evinced the greatest practical wisdom. For, building 
their works on principles and characters which always 
exist, they have laid a base, broad and tenable in the 
feelings and passions of mankind. The abstract phi- 
losophers appear to have obtained no more than a 
purely ephemeral reputation, from the caprice or igno- 
rance of their own age ; but have been unable to 
maintain an e^ual renown from more equitable pos- 
terity. 

That the philosophy of men of the world is faulty 
in reference to a future state, we cannot deny. But 
that the children of this world aie wiser in their gene- 
ration than the children of light, is expressly declared 
in holy writ. Their philosophy is wholly for this life, 
and looks not beyond it. For this purpose, what sys- 
tem better answers its intended aim ? The more eleva- 



THE FAMILIAR PHILOSOPHY. 97 

ted philosophy allows for the imperfections of human 
nature. The worldly, or science du monde^ proceeds 
on the principle, that man, in the limits it prescribes, 
may become perfect. It is complete of itself, and for 
the present, but utterly deficient in any great views 
of another state of being. 

A very great advantage possessed by the Fami- 
liar Philosophy over its scholastic rival, consists in 
its total freedom from all bickering and controversy — a 
vile fault in the latter. The confusion of tongues 
which arose at Babel has not yet ceased, nor will it 
ever cease till the universal clamour be merged in the 
archangel's trumpet. A clatter, as from assembled 
thousands rises on my ear, as I reflect on the wran- 
glings of polemics and the disputes of the schoolmen. 
Theological knights-errant and metaphysical dispu- 
tants are the genuine descendants of the latter loqua- 
cious multitude. The theological, cut off as they are 
by their profession from many innocent pleasures, 
make amends for these deprivations by "envy, hatred, 
and all uncharitableness." Into these do their contro- 
versies at last descend. They backbite each other in 
a style which, in the pulpit, and on a far higher au- 
thority, is deprecated with the greatest earnestness. 
They follow with zeal the maxim of Hudibras, to 

" Compound for sins they are inclined to, 
By damning those they have no mind to." 

They add to the sum of their transgressions by con- 
tinual slander. Their guilt, hke the sorites argument, 
is accumulative. A specimen of this class is by no 



98 THE FAMILIAR PHILOSOPHY* 

means so rare as a true friend or an honest man. To 
this the philosophy gained from a knowledge of the 
world and of human nature opposes a love for mutual 
kindness founded on mutual dependance and a dislike 
to argument merely for its own sake — its maxims 
being the fruit of observation and experience, and not 
reached by artificial deductions or false, strained reflec- 
tions. In fine, it is a philosophy, which, revealing the 
natural corruption, as well as the innate goodness (not 
quite extinct of the human heart,) improves every op- 
portunity of bringing the latter into the service of the 
public and private good, and palliates the former by 
considereitions of human frailty. 



NO. XVII. 

THE OLD ENGLISH COMEDY : 

A STRICTURE ON WYCHERLY AND HIS BRETHREN. 

The sanction of two very admirable writers of the 
present century has given a station to the Comedies of 
Wycherly and his brother dramatists, Vanburgh, Con- 
greve, Cibber, and Farquhar, very far, as we conceive, 
above their real merit. Both of these critics, HazUtt 
and Lamb, gifted with the most dehcate perception of 
genius of every order and possessing intellects through 
which ran, like a vein of gold amid the sands of Pac- 
tolus, a subtle spirit, indiscernible by the coarse vision 
of a vulgar mind, resembled — in one point, at least — 
the dramatists they idolized. Tins resemblance lay in 
their love of conceits, of ingenious sallies, and of the 
niceties of colloquial discourse, of which these old Com- 
edies are full. Similarity of taste has betrayed these 
writers from the truth into an exaggerated opinion of 
authors, by no means deficient, in their own peculiar 
view, but quite wanting in those numerous excellences 
with which the fancy rather than the judgment of their 
partial readers invested them. We will set out with 
the nature of genuine, unadulterated Comedy, then 
apply the test to these productions, declare in what they 

9 



100 THE OLD ENGLISH COMEDY. 

are truly excellent, and point out the objections they 
must incur. 

Coinedy we apprehend to be the vehicle for polished 
and caustic satire of the follies and vices of mankind in 
general. Judicious sentiments on morality and duty 
must be occasionally introduced, not only to prevent 
the too frequent warfare of wit, but also to infuse a 
warm and ennobling feeling, better, far better than the 
cold pliilosophy of stoicism. Instead of observing these 
ends, these comic poets seem to agree with Hazlitt that 
" to read a good comedy is to keep the best company in 
the world, where the best things are said and the most 
amusing happen." These are certainly among the 
chief requisites ; but it is a confined view of the subject 
to hmit its characters, dialogues and incidents to a sin- 
gle class of society. In these plays, the fine gentlemen, 
the fine lady, and the cuckold, usuip the whole dram- 
atis personae — the others being undistinguished by any 
personal or individual character whatever. Alas for 
the " infinite and unstaled variety" of Shakspeare ! 
Hazlitt can decry the true comic muse, and prefer the 
Confederacy to the Merry Wives of Windsor ! 

Another quality we look for in comedy is a faithful 
and exact copy of " the manners living as they rise." 
In reading these plays, however, we would suppose the 
world to be coirjposed only of courtiers and gallants, of 
ladies and their little coteries ; that the rest of the na- 
tion lived on indifferently, while these feasted upon the 
sweets of Love : that a continual banquet was served 
up by Venus and her train, while the Muse, mistress 



THE OLD ENGLISH COMEDY. 101 

of melody, breathed forth notes of gladness for them to 
dance and sing. But, there are utterly wanting any 
beings on whom the hand of nature has stamped a 
freshness like the rich bloom on the cheek of childhood, 
or the pure beauty of a flower enameled with the dew 
of the morning. They are equally destitute of moral 
sentiment, the expression of generous sympathy or true 
compassion. 

The wit, though, of these Comedies? I fear even 
that has been greatly misstated. The wit of Congreve 
has become the standard of jesting repartee. It bristles 
in his comedy as bayonets in a modern army. Bril- 
liancy, lightness and ease are its chief characteristics ; 
but it is cold, malicious, icy — unfriendly to a high esti- 
mate of the best part of human nature. In his pictures 
of high life, he was a consummate master, but there is 
not in all his works a single character worthy of our 
love and admiration. All are ready, quick, sharp and 
witty talkers ; even in this, highly artificial ; while the 
grossness of their language is unpardonable, since the 
most licentious thoughts and freest allusions may be 
enveloped in polished and delicate expressions. Their 
satire delights in disclosing vices — not in lashing them. 
Thus they gloat over the description of an intrigue 
merely as a luscious picture for the imagination ! 

The general aim and tendency of this comedy is 
faulty. It is to render man ridiculous ; not 'so much 
from a laudable desire to represent folly in its meanest 
forms of degradation and selfishness, to expose foppish- 
ness or depress unfounded pretensions, as to indulge in 



IQ^ THE OLD ENGLISH COMEDY. 

a heartless jeer at every thing worthy of respect among 
men. Virtue is laughed at as a prudish thing, out of 
date ; and conduct pursued on the principles of honour 
and integrity is thought proper only for priests and 
placemen out of office. We do not desire that the stage 
should occupy the place of the pulpit ; we only wish to 
express that a comedy, however gay and hvely, should 
illustrate some universally true and sound maxim. 
This is not to be thrown into the faces of the audience 
at every turn, but it is to stamp the play with the air 
and character of a philosophical lesson. 

Charles Lamb endeavours, in one of his delightful 
essays, by very ingenious sophistry, to prove that what 
we disapprove of in these comedies are sins purely ideal, 
and affirms that, when we visit the theatre, it is to 
escape from the reality of life out of doors, and enjoy 
the magical scene raised for his pleasure by imagina- 
tion and art — a scene which has no counterpart in 
reality, but the perfectiotj of which consists in its thor- 
ough ideality. This is but a fine vagary of a man of 
genius. The true charm of the drama undoubtedly 
lies in the very reverse of this. We go to see life as it 
is. The prince of dramatists is most conclusive, in his 
inimitable summary of the stage — " Whose end, both 
at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the 
mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own features, 
scorn her own image, and the very age and body of 
the time his form and pressure." Such was Shaks- 
peare's Comedy ; such was not that of our later writers. 
The dramatic authors who have followed him deserted 



THE OLD ENGLISH COMEDY. 103 

nature for art : they have left us brilliant conversations, 
but an entire lack of character, feehng and sentiment 
— of all that tends to instruct the understanding or 
purify the taste — to soften the heart or engage the 
affections of the soul. 



m 



NO. XVIil, 



THE POLITICAL WRITINGS OF 
THOMAS PAINE. 

It is a fact not a little singular, in the history of lite- 
rature, that political writing which relates to matters of 
great practical importance, and which is sure — when 
well done — of meeting with vast popularity, is gener- 
ally the worst executed of any species of composition. 
In general, slovenly and carelessly written, it is purely 
ephemeral — seldom containing truths of sufficient im- 
portance to endure, in the meagre shape in which they 
are enveloped. The truth is, however, that politics, 
rightly viewed, iis a noble study, and the inquiries tend- 
ing to it of great value, both speculative and practical. 
It is a theme of some dignity, perhaps of the greatest. 
No employment of the faculties can be greater than the 
government of men. Most political pieces are expected 
to be, howevei-, of a current nature merely. Occasion- 
ally men arise who discuss the questions more import- 
ant than any other to the human race, after the truths 
of religion, in a manner, so as to impress durability on 
their productions. Sometimes, the politician is a philo- 
sopher and a poet : and then, his works are appealed to- 
a& staadards of foresight and wisdom.. 



OF THOMAS PAINE. 105 

Political writers may be divided into three classes : 

I. Tliose who write to and for statesmen and philo- 
sophers ; 

II. They who write for those of the educated classes 
who are neither ; and, 

III. Those who write for that " many-headed mon- 
ster/^ the people. 

Among English writers, Burke is the finest specimen 
of the first subdivision, Junius of the second, and Paine 
of the third — each admirable in his way, but wholly 
different from his rivals. The characteristics of Burke 
are brilliancy and profundity ; and he, together with 
Bacon, Milton, and a very few others, is a rare instance 
of the union of these most opposite qualities. The se- 
cond possessed pointed sarcasm, and a keen, polished 
style. The third was shrewd,, admirably clear, pithy 
and caustic. Burke was less practical and more ro- 
mantic than Paine ; his imagination was smitten with 
the love of chivalry, of antiquity, of fallen grandeur. 
This tendency of his imagination led him on to aris- 
tocrasy ; while the absence of it in Paine, probably, 
strengthened his democratic tone of character. 

Paine had more e very-day shrewdness and smart- 
ness — far less, however, of Burke's comprehensive 
sagacity and gorgeous fancy. Junius was more cut- 
ting and vexatious, fuller of glittering points, and alto- 
gether a greater master of sarcasm. That was his 
chief weapon ; but he wanted the fulness and colour- 
ing of Burke, and the fine declamations of Paine. 
Both Burke and Paine were metaphysical in their cast 



lOG THE POLITICAL \VRITINGS 

of mind ; but Burke saw farther in his moral views 
and extended his perceptions over a greater range of 
speculation. Coleridge used to compare Berkley and 
Paine, by hkening the acuteness of the first to that of 
a philosopher, and the shrewdness of the second to the 
cunning of a shopboy. This parallel is deformed by 
extravagance and distorted by prejudice. Nevertheless, 
Paine's range was lower and narrower, though not to 
such a degree as the comparison implied. He has, 
notwithstanding, very great and distinct merits, wholly 
undeniable ; and the services he has rendered this 
country by his pen are too great to account (except on 
one ground) for the declension and comparative obscu- 
rity of his reputation. It is allowed by all liberal judges 
that, in his " Common Sense," and papers entitled 
"The Crisis," he strengthened in the American mind 
its aspirations after libei ty ; gave them the right direc- 
tion ; manfully exhorted them in their wavering hour, 
and acted the part of a freeman and an active friend 
to humanity. In the face of all this, he is now become 
odious, and his name passes for a by-word of contempt. 
He is ranked with Wright, Trollope, and a similar 
band, and despised as a mere flaming Democrat. He 
passes for a thorough-going Radical, whereas he was 
the firmest of Democrats. The reasons of this we be- 
lieve to have originated chiefly from his religious blas^ 
phemies — which have rendered that part of his char- 
acter justly contemptible — and the popular cast of his 
style and address. The first of these causes is inde- 
fensible ; we will not pretend to palliate it. We write 



OF THOMAS PAINE. 107 

and speak now only of Paine the politician — with his 
religion we have nothing to do. ll is to be observed, 
however, that in his political writings published previ- 
ously to the " Age of Reason," he never alludes to the 
Deity but with the most reverential mention. The 
only other cause for his obscurity seems to result from 
his style. Though a master of composition, and an 
acute thinker, he was the people's writer — expressing 
their views, as w^ell as his own, but then better than 
any other man could. Clear, plain, explicit, close, 
compact, he could be understood by all ; and he fur- 
ther possessed a most desirable faculty in a certain 
off-hand, dashing manner, which carried off every 
thing. 

He is always full of sense, perfectly clear, and admi- 
rably concise. He is, whenever he attempts it, as bril- 
hant a declaimer as Burke, with almost equal fancy, 
and without any of his verbosity. His glowing tirades 
on titles in the " Rights of Man," and frequent passages 
in the " Crisis," are perfect specimens. His second 
^^ Crisis," addressed to Lord Howe, is equal for sarcastic 
point and for cutting sneers to any thing in Junius. 
What wit he had grew out of strong sense, sharpened 
by a satirical spirit and a contempt of imposture, how" 
ever successful. He is not a wandering, episodical 
writer, like Cobbett, but direct and straight-forward, 
perhaps a little too formal, and with as few digressions 
as any English writer. 

He has none of the common faults of political wri- 
ters : he is never wordy — never clumsy and round- 



lOS THE POLITICAL WRITINGS 

about in his expressions — never dull and tedious in 
his arguments. He has no pointless anecdotes — no 
heavy familiarity — no puerile rhetoric — no laboured 
bombast. His sentences are clear and shapely — he is 
closely logical, and his arguments are connected as by 
a fine net-work. Whatever style he undertook, whe- 
ther of expostulation or defence, narrative or logical, 
declamatory or moral, ironical or earnest, it always 
was perfectly perspicuous and admirably appropriate. 
Hazlitt, says he, is excellent at summing up and giv- 
ing conclusions, but that he lacks the faculty of giving 
his ideas as they rise fresh in his mind. He prefers 
Cobbett for this progressive exhibition of the course of 
his thoughts. 

There is a pungency in his manner of uttering the 
simplest truths, which gives his pieces the air of a col- 
lection of aphorisms. He gives point to every thing he 
touches, and is never dull and spiritless. He abounds 
in original sayings, and always concludes his pieces 
with a smait sentence . " An army of principles can 
penetrate where an army of men cannot," is one of a 
thousand instances. 

Paine is said to have been little of a reader — to have 
purposely excluded his mind from the acquisition of 
particular kinds of knowledge, in order to concentrate 
it fully on politics. What he did read, however, was 
choice literature ; and his few quotations are exceed- 
ingly apt. He composed by paragraphs — which ac- 
counts for the extreme finish of his style ; for, though 
a very plain style in general, yet this could be perfect- 



OF THOMAS PAINE. 109 

ed only by elaboration and study. His plain manner 
and simple ground-work set off his wit, his illustrations, 
his occasional flights, and his metaphysics, to great 
advantage, and besides contributed largely to his popu- 
larity. During his life-time he enjoyed a great and 
most deserved reputation, which nothing could have 
destroyed but his religious direlection and consequent 
debasement of character. 



NO. XIX. 



THE OLD SONGS AND BALLADS. 

"Old songs, the native music of the heart." — Wardsworth. 

" They were old fashioned poetry, but choicely good — I think much 
better than the strong lines that are now in fashion, in this critical 
flg-e." — Isaac Walton. 

The great contrast between the inspired rapture of 
the muse in the morning of her charms, and the pro- 
ductions of her ladyship in these later days, must be 
very apparent to every student of " the gay science." 
In the early age she was sincere, honest, direct, sim- 
ple; now she is coquettish, artful, and made up of 
borrowed beauties. Then she was 

" ;n her prime. 
Free from rage and free from crime ; " 

but she has committed many a petit larceny since, and 
sometimes an offence which might almost be consid- 
ered capital. She has made herself quite conspicuous 
among felons. She is stript and whipt like a common 
baggage, and her followers are turned out of doors to 
starve. To leave allegory for plain speaking, the 
characteristics of modern poetry are excitement and 
passion, and passion of the least noble character ; that 
of our early poetry, thoughtful sentiment, and rich 
fancy. The latter appears to have been the product 



THE OLD SONGS AND BALLADS. Ill 

of men of a rare contemplative genius ; the former, of 
men of an artificial fa ncy and of exaggerated passion. 
There is nature (at least) in the one, but a sheer want 
of it in the other. If it be concluded that to be violent, 
rapid and startling is to be natural, then we are mista- 
ken. But w« apprehend such features of character, 
and such a description of incidents, are comparatively 
infrequent and episodical. The main current of Hfe is 
not for ever turbid and foaming. Mountain torrents 
may be found thus, but the noiseless river, the silver 
lake, the crystal brook are not. There is a greater 
calm spread over the face of nature, however man may 
strive to mar its beauty by turbulence and crime. As 
it is with physical, so is it with man's moral nature — 
the one being but the shadowing forth of the other. 
The feehngs of youth bud with the green tree, and the 
withered marrow of age is best depicted by the bare 
branches and decaying sap of the old oak. Besides, 
the poetry of sentiment must be allowed superior to the 
poetry of passion. In itself, sentiment is purer and 
nobler than passion. Passion is selfish, sensual, fierce, 
savage, gross, earthy, compared with sentiment. When 
passion is refined by sentiment, elevated and spiritual- 
ized by intellect ; when it borrows the mantle of affec- 
tion, and not the fires of hell, then it is omnipotent and 
grand — though poets who paint pa sion, generally, 
however, represent its dark and terrible traits, or its 
loathsome features. As the old poets seldom picture 
such scenes, they arrive (it app ars to us) nearer to the 

beau ideal of poesy than their modern successors. 
10 



112 THE OLD SONGS AND BALLADS. 

The old song and ballad writers come closer to our 
idea of prinnitive poets than any other class. They 
carry us back to the first glimmerings of poesy, and 
their melody is fresh with innocence and purity. They 
bear all the marks of antiquity, older than the Homeric 
poems, and coeval with the Cylic bards — vastly older 
in appearance than they really are, from their form, 
language and metre. They are remnants of the Go- 
thic spirit; and like all the remtjants of those times, 
more ancient than a far earlier period. The Gothic 
architecture has a more venerable and antique air than 
the Grecian ; and so it is with poetry. 

These old songs may be divided into two kinds, the 
amatory and the convivial. They are all gay catches, 
though, in the first, the sentiment is dashed with a cer- 
tain tender softness, inexpressibly charming ; and the 
second, like all other pieces in the same way, are light, 
gay, cheerful. 

The good fellow whose portrait Denham has drawn 
with great spirit, was (with them) the king of men. 
Cheerfulness was their philosophy, and the art of life 
its great practical aim. A merry wag was their sage, 
and a laugh worth all the homilies of all the grave 
teachers of morality. 

In the old collections, you find no such songs as Dib- 
din's, no pieces purely patriotic, and no high-toned 
moral odes. There were, however, sweet singers of 
the Temple — Herbert, Farrar, Quarles, Walton — who 
raised many a lofty note to heaven, unheeded perhaps 
by men, but caught up by the choir of angels ; and 



THE OLD SONGS AND BALLADS. 113 

strewn among old treatises, as " Walton's Angler," but 
more especially in the elder dramatists, are exquisite 
snatches of song, which can hardly be classed in any 
one formal division. Love ditties, dirges, gems of pas- 
toral scenery, enchanting pictures of beauty, sonnets, 
sparkle like gems in their rich volumes. 

No species of composition is harder to dissect or an- 
alyze than song writing. It cannot be analyzed from 
its unity and simplicity. A perfect song should be a 
complete development of a single sentiment or idea, 
without episode or digression. It should be a burst of 
music, a gush of feeling, easy, artless, unlaboured. It 
can no more be criticised than a sun-beam, or the spark- 
ling of jewels, or the fall of a cascade. It may be 
called sweet, beautiful, natural, gay, tender, or melan- 
choly — no more: the epithet embraces a criticism. 

The old ballads, or rather the best of them, are 
equally fine. They are heroic, pathetic and humorous, 
descriptive of the broad, open hospitality of the olden 
time, or imbued with the spirit of manly sports or rustic 
revels, presenting a perfect picture of the inanners and 
spirit of the age. They are full to overflowing of an 
honest sentiment and a liberal courtesy, revealing the 
substantial character of our forefathers, with their no- 
blest traits. They are simple without any circumlocu- 
tion, and explicit without any unnecessary dififuseness. 
They speak out the truth, and make no boggling. 
Common things are told with indifference, and noble 
deeds and thoughts are not boastful nor eloquent. 
They are without any garnish of rhetoric. The heroic 



114 THE OLD SONGS AND BALLADff. 

ballad relates the deeds of heroes and the turmoil of 
battle. The din of arms is heard, the clashing of 
shields, the shouts of the horsemen, the braying of the 
trumpets — then we see the vast, irregular old eastles 
and fortifications, fosses and draw-bridges, banners 
streaming from the turrets and from every tower, and 
the whole air filled with martial music. 

In the more social and familiar scene, we are warned 
by the uprightness of intention, the steadfastness of 
faith, and chariness of honour, the generosity of affec- 
tion, and the universal spirit of humanity. 

Where love is the theme, either successful, firm in- 
constancy and. ardent,- or in distress from false lover, 
these early masters of the tender passion are pre-emi- 
nently faithful. They depict it in all its artless purity 
and confiding faith. The single ballad of Childe 
Waters is a leaf out of the great book of human nature. 
Whoever can read it, without feeling his eyes fill with 
tears, must,, indeed, be a worldling, a genuine earth- 
worm. Compared with the modern drawing-room 
rhymers, the fashionable lyrists of the day, they are 
vastly truer, and certainly more poetical. It is in fact 
an argument agamst the latter, that they are sung by 
jeweled throats, since the veiy essence of love is solita- 
riness. It is too sacred to be indulged in crowds. The 
clear vein of sentiment and romantic beauty is not 
turned into eddies by glittering similes and strained 
rhapsody, but. such as the modern favourite might envy 
with despair. To attempt to rival his elder brother in 
the glorious art, were as presumptuous as for the most 
skilful musician to endeavour at equalling the involun> 



THE OLD SONGS AND BALLADS. Il5 

tary strains of the nightingale. "Percy's Reliques" 
alone niay be opposed to all the lyric' poetry since the 
time of Burns. He was the last who inherited the 
genuine spirit and the poetic heart of the old minstrels. 
Scott's " Young Lochivar" is the best since, and " The 
Brave Old Oak," and " The Sea, in different lines, 
are very fine specimens. 

Scott was a great lover of the old ballads, and his 
taste for them formed a part of his noble nature. There 
was no trickery in his attachment to them. He had 
an unshaken relish for them, inasmuch as they evolved 
much of his own character. The battle-scenes, in par- 
ticular, must have been a source of great delight to him, 
inasmuch, as he has caught their spirit very exactly, in 
the description of tournaments. 

Among our own writers, Irving's fine taste has in no 
respect appeared to such advantage, as in his admira- 
tion of the same rich stores of poetry and romance. 

The taste of the age is coming round by degrees. 
The old dramatists and prose-writers are beginning to 
be more generally known, though they, always, (except 
during one period) have obtained the admiration of the 
few. May we not hope, that the old English ballad 
and the song may revive in its primitive sweetness ; 
that, tales of blood and of terror may be superseded by 
that more genuine picture of nature, in which simpli- 
city and innocence are the finest features ? Oh 1 that 
the day may come, when the voice of the muse may be 
heard as artlessly captivating, as 

" the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains,. 
When ail his flock 's at feed before him." 



NO., xxr. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR THE REFLECTIVE. 

What can be more distressing than to be drawn 
into acts of deception by the force of circumstances — to 
be obliged to conceal the Truth. 

1 he true philosophic character is composed of a love 
of truthy scepticism, benevolence of heart, firmness of 
purpose^ mental courage^ and a constant inclination to 
ascend to first principles. 

There are incidents occurring in the life of a man of 
true sentiment too sacred to be drawn, with levity, from 
the deep recesses of his own heart. 

The man of the greatest abilities and of the most 
Tersatile talents must be excused for many defects and 
numerous slips in conduct. 

There are redeeming traits in the characters of na- 
tions, as well as of men. '^ The web of life is of a 
mingled yarn." 

Our dearest companions are our best friends. Why 
should it not be so? For he who participates in our 
most secret sympathies should of right mingle in our 
gayest pleasures. The pleasantest compamon is a man 
of great experience, and co-nsequently of great liberality 
of sentiment, with a talent for conversatioiK and ai 
s^eet demeanor;. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR THE REFLECTIVE^ I IT 

Compliments are elegant refinements upon truth. 

Which is better — to praise a man to liis face and 
slander him as soon as liis back is turned — or to speak 
roughly to him personally, but eulogize him as soon as 
he is out of hearing 1 

A clear and distinguishing judgment, joined to an 
infirm and unstable will, makes a philosopher in spec- 
ulation, a fool in practice. 

The nicest tact of a man of address is shown in his 
manner of saluting persons of ditferent rank. 

Marriage is a contract where Judgment must be 
equally Advocate and Judge, in connection with Love, 
who generally gains the cause, without the aid of any 
€ther counsel 

Every thinking man has sensations of mental plea- 
sure and of mental pain, which are entirely inexplica- 
ble. And yet, this very insufficiency, if possible, en- 
hances his joy and embitters his anguish. 

Does not every one experience a state of feeling, on 
a fine morning in Autumn, very different from what 
he is aware of on a glorious day in Spring, an evening 
sunset in Summer, or a gloomy night in the depth of 
Winter? 

Most men regard a merry Christian as an anomaly ; 
surely a sad one presents no very encouraging spectacle. 

The lawyer thinks the noblest principle is involved 
where the principal sum at stake is largest.. 

The three professions have had their satirists — the 
only checks on them* Without satire she world would 
run mad. 



118 SUGGESTIONS FOR THE REFLECTIVE* 

We caa never think of poets as old men. Every 
thing connected with them is imbued with the charm 
of immortal youth and perpetual spring. 

Some whose individual perceptions are very quick, 
are slow in apprehending the ideas of others. They 
can invent and find much easier than they can follow 
and penetrate. Such make better leaders than follow- 
ers : they can address a large body with far greater 
effect than they can take part in a debate. Perhaps 
this is the reason why great orators are generally such 
bad talkers. 

Sectarianism we have known carried so far that 
persons of the same rank in society w^ould never inter- 
change civilities, because they happened to belong to 
different connnunions. What sort of a meeting might 
one imagine between a Quaker and an Episcopalian, 
a Baptist and a Catholic, a Jew and a New-Jerusalem- 
ite — in heaven ? On earth they can hardly sit in the 
same room together 1 

The most original and refined wit can be relished 
only by a very few. The grosser mind is more popu- 
lar. A delicate wit requires fine judgment to appre- 
ciate it. A wit needs to have his audience packed. 

Extremes are bad things, (it is generally allowed,) 
and those placed in them are the worst judges in the 
world of relative merit. Thus the solid man thinks 
the gay companion a mere trifler ; while the latter 
esteems the former a very dull fellow. Imaginative 
persons cannot endure judicious people, nor can the 
man of method be captivated by flights of fancy. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR THE REFLECTIVE. II9> 

Truth is like medicine : we can take neither without 
something sweet to remove its unpleasant taste. 

Grave men see no difference between a buffoon and 
a man of genuine wit. They laugh with similar relish 
at absurd antics or delicate repartees. 

Maxims contain the pure essence of truth. 

Rules are the result of experience. 

Melancholy passes for sulkiness, merriment for frivo- 
lity, honesty for rudeness, and courtesy for cunning; 
self-denial for ostentation, decision for obstinacy ; pity 
is called weakness, while justice is called severity. 
The world is governed by names. 

Want of sympathy, and deficiency in the power of 
cxpression,contribute to render a highly sensitive being 
wretched. 

The traveller wonders why all the world is not tra- 
velling. 

It is a singular thing to remark how differently a 
man is affected by the same passions and sentiments 
at different periods. 

The most eccentric man is often the most reason- 
able — following nature. 

What are called paradoxes are frequently old truths 
in a new dress or disguise. 

The malice of our enemies often conduces to our 
own benefit and to their harm. 

With the great mass of mankind, delicacy and re- 
finement in wit, humor, sentiment and criticism consti- 
tute affectation. Gluaint fancies and brilliant conceitss 
pass under the same name.. 



120 SUGGESTIONS FOR THE REFLECTIVE. 

The blackest man is a white person painted to re- 
semble a negro : so the fairest saint, when he plays the 
hypocrite, (no uncommon thing,) makes the vilest sin- 
ner in the world. 

We gain the respect of mankind by expressing their 
vices. We are rewarded with their contempt by 
dwelling on their good quahties. Swift is feared, hated 
and admired ; Mackenzie is liked, pitied and despised. 

Satire is the most useful of all forms of writing. Sen- 
timent, is literally wasted upon nineteen readers out of 
twenty. 

We must expect to make enemies if we will tell the 
truth : therefore we cease. 



NO. XXI. 

THOUGHTS ON THE INTELLECTUAL CHARACTER AND WRITINGS OF 

EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 

No coniemporary writer surpasses Mr. BuJwer, either 
in pretension or popularity. The admirable successor 
of Smollet and Fielding, Mr. Dickens, equals him in 
the last respect, but is, withal, a very modest man — for 
an author. The first named gentleman is the most 
successful of literary impostors, having palmed off more 
absurdity and nonsense on the public than any other 
writer of the present day. Possessing one quality alone 
in perfection, he has obtained from a skillful exercise 
of it, the credit of possessing all others. Were we weak 
enough to be deluded by the baits he holds out in his 
prefaces, we should have considered him the most 
original of writers, as well as the profoundest of philoso- 
phers. He speaks of analyzing certain passions and 
painting characters, as if no one had ever succeeded 
before in similar attempts. He will show how faulty 
other writers have been, to infer his own superiority — 
building his own reputation on the ruins and fragments 
of other writers, like those modern architects who would 
erect edifices of stone from the defaced statues of anti- 
quity. 



EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 122 

As a writer of fiction, Mr. Bulwer has attempted 
much : let us see what he has really accomplished. In 
what has he succeeded, or in what failed ? His fail- 
ures, in our estimate, predominate so greatly, that we 
will begin with them. 

His chief characters are, lovers, students, fine gen- 
tlemen, men of the world, and public personages. The 
first are any thing but true and sincere ; they are, rather, 
elegant libertines. His students — intended, as we sup- 
pose, as representatives of their author under different 
phases — are good critics enough, and shrewd observers, 
but feverish in their aspirations, and misanthropic. 
His fine gentlemen and men of the world, are well 
tirawn ; this is his forte, and he executes it con araore. 
He is strongest in delineating heartlessness and worldly 
folly. Of late, since he has been elevated into public 
life, he has conceived a great passion for describing 
public men. An intense egotism pervades all his cha- 
racters. He draws from himself, we suspect, for most 
of his materials ; and from the singleness of his own 
character, there results a great sameness in all his 
works. His egotism, too, is not of the frank, relying 
nature of the great old writers, but it is an uneasy 
composition of artificial modesty and irritable vanity. 
All of the dramatis fcrsonm are cut after the same 
pattern, and made from the same block; each one of a 
class resembles all the others of the same class. Their 
sentiments are provided for the occasion — second-hand, 
not of spontaneous growth ; they set awkwardly on 
them. 



EDWARD LYl-TON BULWER. 123 

His philosophy is borrowed from the French ; his 
head is filled with maxims drawn from the moralists 
of that nation, and from Latin writers. He is a great 
admirer of Helvetius — a sensualist, a glittering, para- 
doxical sophist. He is a Frenchman in disguise, with 
nothing of the Englishman about him ; without the 
briUianoy of the former, and certainly, destitute of the 
solidity of the latter. His intellect is of an intermediate 
quality between the two. He affects th« metaphysical 
critic and speculatist ; but is a most shallow theorist in 
morals, though nice in discriminating artificial charac- 
ters, and their governing motives. His morality is most 
dangerous in its tendency, and licentious to the core. 
He is thought very philosophical by those who study 
metaphysics in works of fiction — the last resort of "di- 
vine philosophy," 

In point of style, he is mechanical, elaborate, strained, 
and tedious. There is no easy current or plain ground- 
work ; every thing is perked into the reader's face. He 
writes as one who reads every thing in an emphatic 
tone. All his sentences ought to be printed in capitals, 
for he tries to be startling in every phrase. He has no 
repose — no calm — no dignity. He has striking obser- 
vations, but seems to care little about their truth. His 
style is partly French, partly German, and slightly 
English. In his epigrammatic passages, which are 
his best, he is French ; in his rhapsodies, where he 
drops down plump into the region of bombast, he is 
German ; and in his prefaces, where he aims at ele- 
gant criticism, he is a writer of most slovenly English. 

11 



fi4 EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 

His familiarity is laboured and heavy, his trifling ridi- 
culous and silly. To trifle with elegance is a nice art, 
and Mr. Bulwer cannot acquire it ; the more eagerly 
he pursues it, the worse he writes. He is utterly defi- 
cient in humour ; and the semblance of wit he has is 
a certain smartness, the effect of style. He has none 
of Irving's fine description and nice skill in the con- 
duct of his narratives. He is a great admirer of Tom 
Jones; why not study that perfect narrative?- -perfect, 
at least, as a work of art. His story is inharmonious 
in the management of incident, and abrupt. He has 
no power of fusion in his mind, and cannot melt down 
his materials into a continuous whole. Every thing 
stands out by itself — the incidents being the essence of 
commonplace. His high personages are inflated talk- 
ers, his low characters retailers of ribaldry and vulgar- 
ity. His essays at eloquence are lamentable instances 
of sheer rhapsody. What, then, has he? Why, these 
practical qualities, which carry every thing before them: 
He knows the public taste well ; just what it will take 
— how much it will bear. He has calculated all the 
chances of imposition, and is familiar with the art of 
making the most of the very meanest materials. He 
has tact, and great industry ; a very clever compiler of 
romances. He is a perfect master of all the tricks of 
authorship and all the devices of book-making. He 
wants nature and genius, but he has ability and per- 
severance. No one can deny his general scholarship 
and critical acumen ; but then he has a Frenchman's 
taste, being easily caught by glitter. The high opin- 



EDWARD LYTTON BULWER. 125 

ions he entertains of Young, and writers of his descrip- 
tion, discovers the tone of his taste very plainly. 

He is the painter of the fashionable world and of 
artificial Ufe. He rules supreme in the dress-circle and 
the salon. He is a master of badinage and raillery. 
Into the world of nature he has never found entrance ; 
to natural passions, which, " masterless, sways us to 
the mood of what she likes or loathes," he is an utter 
stranger. Whenever he assiuiies enthusiasm — for it 
never has the appearance of rising out of the subject — 
he writes with a bastard heat, as dififerent from genuine 
enthusiasm, as gold leaf is different from pure gold, or 
as fire painted on the canvass, is different from the real 
element. He wants the lofty dignity of the greatest 
intellects, but frets and fumes, on every occasion, into 
something like declamation. In fine, he is a skilful 
literary manufacturer, but will rank with the Capulets 
twenty yeais hence. If he lives that length of time, 
he will outlive his own reputation ; and may cry out, 
if wise, with good-natured Master Betty, in the decline 
of life, " Oh, Memory, Memory !" &c. 



NO. xxir.. 

REFLECTIONS AFTER TBE MANNER OF ROCHEfOUCAULDi 

CRITICS AND CRITICISM. 

In a polite ag'e, the greatest harm Literature receives 
is from the universaHty of Criticism. 

'Tis a matter of great doubt with me if there be any- 
such thing as Public Opinion. If it does exist, it is a 
most puzzling problem to discover how it acts and is 
acted upon. 

There are almost as few judicious critics as original 
writers. 

The criticism of a man of taste is generally based 
upon an inslinctive feeling for the beauties of compo- 
sition ; that of a judicious man is the result of a process 
of reasoning. 

Rules certainly never made a poet and hardly a 
critic. Without doubt they never made a genial critic. 

'Tis a species of profanation, to decry truly great 
names. 

Mauy fine writers upon criticism prove very unsafe 
critics. 

Now-a-days, the critic is frequently the rival of his 
author. 

A true critic must have a heart as well as a head. 
This is often forgotten. 



CRITICS AND CRITICISM. 127 

The Republic of Letters is wholly unlike all other 
republics. In it, the few govern. 

Men intelligent in tbeir own walk of life, but who 
have never received any tincture of letters, make the 
most opinionated of all critics. A carpenter, expects to 
quadrate the powers of the human mind, and a stone- 
mason to overthrow one of Ariosto's castles. 

Those who turn critics, after having failed in every 
other department of literature, are invariably, of all 
others, the most narrow-minded and presuming, mali- 
cious and sour. 

There must be a vein of true delicacy in criticism, 
which belongs only to men of remarkably nice powers 
of discrimination. 

Few critics can appreciate true sentiment. 

Many persons have a cant phrase they apply to 
every book. 

What with paid critics and party critics, friendly and 
hostile, it is next to impossible to get an unbiased judg- 
ment of any work in this age of books. 

All critics condemn in the same fashion. 

Lawyers make good vej'bal critics. 

Oriental and biblical critics surpass all others in con- 
ceit and punctuation. 

Authors (the best) are very fair and liberal critics of 
each other's merits, notwithstanding the general im- 
pression to the contrary. 

Short, incidental criticisms are infinitely better and 
certainly truer than set formal critiques. 

Most critics are very deficient in standards, 
lit 



12® CRITICS AND CRITICISM. 

A long-continued habit of criticising authors inclines 
a man to recommend writing after models. 

Fine critics may be divided into three classes — the 
acute, the judicious, the eloquent. The first are sterling 
and original, but in some particulars are apt to be de- 
fective and unso'ind ; the second are always just and 
fair, but rather cold and indifferent ; the third genial 
and brilliant, but often both unsound and unjust. 

The best critics are ever in a minority on all ques- 
tions of taste on which the public undertakes to decide.. 

Is there not more music in Paganini's violin than in 
the choir of a country church? just so there is more 
trust to be reposed in the judgment of a first rate critic 
than in the collected opinions of an army of general 
readers. 

Criticism undergoes as many mutations as fashion, 
and is influenced by causes as trivial. 

Criticism is generally finest when original writings 
are worthless.. 'Tis an art that flourishes best in tlie 
decay of all others. 

Original writers make critics, but critics never make 
©riginai writers. 



NO. xxiir. 



CHEAP PLEASURES. 

Yes ! there are such, dear reader, or economical 
reader, or wise and prudent reader — as tiie title suits 
you best. You can be happy and enjoy yourself at 
much less cost than you imagine ; at small expense 
indeed, if you will. It is the commonest of vulgar 
errors, to suppose there can be no pleasure without 
pomp, and wealth, and the envy of poorer neighbours. 
These are the greatest drawbacks upon genuine recre- 
atiouy to a man of sense and feeling. The true seeker 
after happiness regards them not. 

Our highest pleasures, a clear conscience, pure health, 
the company of our friends, and that of the best com- 
panions, books, cost nothing. I m.ean in a pecuniary 
view, except the last, and in their instance the cost is 
far less than the gratification they bring. The com- 
monest of nature's gifts are also much beyond the rarest 
productions of art. No perfume can equal the pure air 
of the country ; the salt breezes of ocean. No picture 
dare rival that of the noblest of artists. Nature : no 
sounds, those of the feathered choristers. So if one be 
a sensual philosopher, where can he go for a higher 
gust of pleasure, than out into the open fields,^ the retired 



130 CHEAP PLEASURES. 

grove, the shady wood, the solitary shore. If he be 
thirsty, what Hquor is half so delicious as a cup of cold 
water from the spring : if he be hungry, what banquet 
so tempting as the plain dinner of a common peasant. 
Goldsmith's hermit asked only for 

"A scrip with herbs and roots supplied, 
And water from the spring." 

The world requires a good deal of enlightening on this 
point, and it has been the aim of true philosophy, from 
Socrates down, to set people right. Pleasure is not 
found in halls, in palaces, in courts, in camps, it may 
be discovered in a hut, in the shop, the study. It is 
the portion of aU classes, and confined to no one set or 
station. It may be obtained by all. It has its condi- 
tions, however, of enjoyment and even of obtaining it. 
The three main requisites to obtaining it are, intel- 
lectual culture, moral soundness, and a healthful body. 
The conscience must be unsullied ; the mind, inform- 
ed ; and the system, in good order. Assuming these 
to be so, we proceed to lay down, as our first and grand 
principle : that, in order to obtain the greatest amount 
of pleasures, the mind, heart, soul and body, must be 
so developed, as to perceive, to the greatest extent, the 
innumerable sources of pleasure and happiness spread 
around us. To thi?, we add as a corollary, that sym- 
pathy with our fellow-creatures, and grateful love and 
reverential admiration of the Deity, should flow from 
this developement. However, we are not writing a 
homily, but a familiar essay. We will not, therefore, 
insist on the grand truths, which every good and reli- 



^6^^ 



CHEAP PLEASURES. 131 

gious man has received (long since) as religious and 
philosophical facts, but apply ourselves to what we first 
premised, following the reflections, with which we com- 
menced. Expense does not make pleasure, nor econ- 
omy either ; it is independent, in most cases, of both. 
Where the pleasures are bought, as too often happens, 
they are surely much more prized, if luxuries, than if 
every day incidents in a rich man's life. We are not 
speaking to the latter. To tiie poor man we would 
disclose, those sources of enjoyment ; and we would 
show him, if we could, how little do the rich enjoy their 
expensive pleasures ! Howirksome pass their luxurious 
hours ! How often do they turn on each other the in- 
quiring gaze, and ask, in the hot and crowded saloon of 
fashion, if this be joy? A man of liberal sentiment 
and accomplished education, who has lived in the 
society of (he (so-called) great, and who afterwards lives 
with the (so-called) poor, can see the difference and 
will tell the truth. I would ask such a person if a 
formal, splendid dinner, can give half the satisfaction, 
as a simple meal, with the company of a friend ? If a 
man enjoys a drive more, in a rich chariot, or a simple 
wagon '^ If he sleeps the better for his damask cur- 
tains, or walks more easily in tight boots? The rich 
live for others. The fashionable, for fashion. The 
ostentatious and proud, for observation only. The 
wise man, for comfort, for happiness, for knowledge. 

Do riches give a fairer eye for the charms of nature* 
an ear more nicely attuned to the still voice of friend- 
ship, the still sweeter voice of love ; a sense better fitted 



1^3 CHEAP PLEASURES. 

to comprehend the thousand blessings of creation, of 
life ? Do they expand the heart, elevate the mind ? 
Do they increase in a man the love of the beautiful, 
the worship of the great Universal? Ah no I They 
rather contract and diminish, to the one point of an 
idolatry of money and the rankest selfishness, the im- 
mortal mind. They brutify the spiritual, and excite 
a worship of this world's god. 

The rich can take long voyages, ransack the trea- 
sures of far-oflf countries, and what profiteth them? 
Nothing. They come home — empty. The poor 
(falsely so styled) philosopher walks out in the evening's 
calm, after a day of study or labour. His spirit is 
hushed and his soul is calm. Doth he not enjoy a 
far higher pleasure than the worldling ? He looks out 
on the summer clouds and beholds the setting sun. 
So may his sun set ! Around his path, lines of glory 
are trailing, to mark his departing grandeur. The 
heavens are an airy canvass, where immortal colours 
paint themselves in melting beauty. Hath the world 
a nobler sight than this ; can she exhibit a fairer scene ? 
He looks on in admiration. The travelled fool heeds 
it not ; but will go hundreds of miles to say he has 
seen St. Peter's. But has he felt its sublimities ? 

The cultivated man will be charmed by the simplest 
landscape; by what another would call tame or barren. 
For his mind reflects the charms of rural beauty. It 
requires no finished taste to love nature, but a willing 
heart. The virtuoso would scorn these simple charms ; 
but expend a fortune in mere imitations of them in oil 



V-.- 



CHEAP PLEASURES. 13S 

or water colours. The colours of nature are not good 
enough for him. — A catalogue of such pleasures as 
these would be endless. I will ennumerate but a few. 

Walkifig, whether in summer or winter. For an 
admirable description of a walk in winter, read Cowper. 
In summer, an hour or two before dark and early in 
the morning, are the pleasantest seasons. In winter, 
right after breakfast and just before tea. The most 
agreeable walk in winter is just before tea. The glow 
arising from active exercise, which one feels on coming 
in out of the bitter cold, agreeably prepares him for the 
long winter evening. During the walk, observation, 
discussion, and thought, pleasantly and profitably diver- 
sify the time. Sometimes, we would walk alone, to 
think ; sometimes, to observe ; oftener, with one dear 
friend and beguile the way by "whispered talk." 
Walking, even with an occasional acquaintance, is not 
unpleasant, unless he be so, and if the distance be 
short. But, for a good long walk, through a sweet 
country, give me my best friend and dearest compan- 
ion. This is a pleasure within the reach of all — the 
sick and lame excepted. May they be recompensed 
by assiduous kindness ! and by the labours of love, for 
this real r'eprivation. 

Conversation is another never-failing pleasure ; 
whether with our friend, our acquaintance, our equals, 
or (sometimes) inferiors. This is a trite theme, how- 
ever delightful. 

Reading is the chiefest of all. " Books are, in- 
deed, a world," and moreover, the best of all possible 



184 CHEAP PLEASURES* 

worlds. Hearing a light work read aloud by a dear 
voice, or studying a deep one, in the silence of your 
own Utile sanctum. 

Speaking of voices, reminds me of the most charm- 
ing of recreations. JSing-iiig' — Still, let me hear thy 
sweet treble, dearest M., rising in its liquid career (like 
the lark) in some sacred melody ; or, my own scien- 
tific whistle, dear, for its owner's «ake. This may be 
trifling, but it is not affectation. Of a Sunday evening 
nothing is half so delightful to me as an old fashioned 
hymn. 

The greatest of unbought joys is yet to follow. It 
is the honest approval of an upright heart, and of which 
simple truth is its highest skill. It arises from the 
pleasure of obeying the dictates of duty, and its highest 
reward, is the pleasure of the pursuit. 

There are pleasures, which cost something, which 
a man may enjoy at times, if he can afford them. 
Though not unbought, to be sure, still are they 
cheap in comparison with other, more expensive grati- 
fications. For instance, the Theatre for improvement 
in action, — for the study of nature, at second-hand — 
and for the delights of music. Concerts may furnish 
the latter, to the scrupulous. 

Collections of Pictures are well worth looking at, 
if only to show the poverty of art, in comparison with 
the exhaustless wealth of nature. Lectures on liter- 
ary, philosophical and scientific subjects, by able and 
lettered men. Readings by a fine elocutionest. Oc- 
casional Riding and Driving — in the country, this is 



CHEAP PLEASURES. 135 

a necessity ; in the city, a luxury. A pleasant Sail 
is a great treat. 

All these things cost money, and a man must guage 
his indulgences by the size of his purse. We have 
omitted one or two great gratifications, and a host 
of minor ones. 1 ravel is a very dear, but, more 
useful pleasure. It is of great value to a judicious man. 
It entertains as well as instructs. There is much 
travelling, however, in a small space. A great deal to 
be seen in a short circle. Even he vho travels a great 
deal must make selections, he cannot see every thing. 
So must we. Let us be content to see little, but to see 
it well. Know thoroughly one district, and you know 
more than many who have scoured whole territories. 
To go back a little, there is Fishings — the contempla- 
tive man's recreation. Read Walton and fish. Ye I 
who are seeking for a cheap, quiet pleasure, betake 
yourselves to a shady, retired nook, and pass a day in 
silence and reflection. It is an occupation full of wis- 
dom. A most healthful and agreeable pleasure is 
Bathing. " The mild refresher of the summer heats." 
And then there is Gardenings and especially Flowers, 
This last is the lady's province and fit pursuit. It 
was Eve's in Paradise. 

The last I shall mention is, the Social Game ; 
whatever it be, the simpler the better. Where age and 
childhood may join together and pursue an equal con- 
test. I know no picture more delightful, both to the 
heart and imagination, than this : — A sprightly old 
grandmother and her sedate grandson, playing at 
12 



136 CHEAP PLEASURES. 

draughts, in front of a picturesque old cottage, of a 
summer's afternoon. What a beautiful union of sim- 
plicity and experience : of innocence and wisdom ! 

I have spoken of many cheap pleasures, let me add 
two permanent luxuries to my list : a Bird and 
Prints. Let every family have its Canary, and its 
volumes of engravings ; the latter taken from fine 
paintings of every class. Let a portrait or two, be 
hanging up ; but not unless they are really good. A 
score of daubs is not equal to a print of Hogarth's or 
"Wilkie's. 

What I have written, has been written in good faith. 
If any reader thinks this trifling, he is not the reader 
we want. We seek for practical wisdom and avail- 
able enjoyment. Have I not mentioned a few of the 
sources of the latter ? I think so. Must we be for 
ever the slaves of names, of prejudice and custom? 
Shall we not be happy in a simple style and in the 
way which suits us best ? It seems a clear case to us, 
however others may regard it. Much might be added 
to thisj but we have done. 



Note. — ^We have said nothing: of the Scholar's delight and of the 
pleasures of Composition. P>ery true man of letters feels both of 
these, to be his highest joys. It would be presumptuous in us to tell 
such what they very well know. The public, however, know them 
not, nor could they comprehend them. 



NO. XXIV. 



MODERN PHILOSOPHIE?. 

A COMPARAT.VE VIEW. 

In the present paper, we will consider the Scotch, 
German, French and English schools, in order. And 
in order more clearly to elucidate the spirit of each, a 
few observations on the national characteristics of each 
people may not be irrelevant. 

The Scotch are a prudent, and cautious, and logical 
people. They are prone to inquire into the reason, 
search out the cause, and deduce the effect, of every 
thing. They are close reasoners rather than deep 
thinkers. They examine much better than they spec- 
ulate. Philosophical invention they have none, whe- 
ther in theory, argument, or illustration. They abhor 
paradox, but take refuge in common-place. More 
attached to fact than opinion, they are oftener governed 
by statistics than by sentiments. They are letter ac- 
quainted with figures of arithmetic than figures of 
rhetoric. Hence their philosophy is the best index of 
their national character. Hence they are better logi- 
cians than metaphysicians. They are slow and wary 
in their abstract speculations, as well as in every thing 
else. They for ever err on ihe right side. They keep 
to the windward of Fortune. She blows them none 



1.38 MQDERN PHILOSOPHIES. 

but propitious gales. They take Burns' verses for theiE 
motto. — 

" For know, 
That prudent, cautious, self-control, 
Is Wisdom's root." 

They are sensible writers on philosophy. Faithful 
compilers, but no more. They have no originality :. 
Reid, being the only one who offers the show of it 
even, and he certainly deserves the praise of a sober,, 
patient, sincere inquirer after truth. They are (as a 
class) men of but moderate powers, and popular in 
their style and manner. They have none of the 
acuteness of Berkley nor his grace of style — none of 
the compact sense of Hobbes — none of the vast capacity 
of Bacon. In point of eloquence, which Stewart and 
Brown affect very much, they are flimsy declaimers. 
It is the remark of William Hazlitt, that " they turned 
all to favour and prettiness." 

The principle of the common-sense philosophy is 
widely at variance with all lofty speculation. Com- 
mon-sense is an admirable quality for every-day people 
in every-day matters. It is an excellent and sure in- 
stinct for the conduct of affairs in common life, but it 
'fe entirely unfitted for higher themes. Neither religion 
nor poetry (which appeal to the highest faculties of our 
nature, faith and imagination) appeal to this. They 
are above it, as faith is above reason.. 

The nature of common sense may be derived from 
its very name. Nothing can be more characteristic. 
It is the faculty, so universally possessed as to be styled 
common in consequence. It cannot, therefore,, be ol 



MODERN PHILOSOPHIES. 139 

a very superior nature, rarity being more commonly 
the badge of genuine merit. Whatever is pre-emi- 
nently excellent, is, in genera], uncommonly scarce. 
Else, why are Goodness, Virtue, Wisdom, Genius, 
Strength, Beauty, so highly esteemed ? For subjects 
of a spiritual and internal nature, it is by no means 
an efficient guage. It cannot fathom the depths of 
the mighty ocean of philosophy, (on which so many 
frail barks have been sunk for ever,) nor scale the lofty 
heights of speculative inquiry. It has no sufficient 
measure for such questions. A fly might as well at- 
tempt ta take the altitude of Mount Blanc. It deals 
with the world of matter only. It wants faith, to 
remove mountains of metaphysical difficulty. 

A great defect in the common-sense system, is in its 
conceited and pragmatical tone. It professes to account 
for every thing, in the simplest manner. Now, this is 
impossible. Such a boast is most presumptuous and 
silly. It discovers the real weakness of their philoso- 
phy. Where every thing is plain and apparent, there 
can be no speculation ; — where there h no speculation 
there can be no abstract inquiry ; — what is obvious, 
needs no search. But what is philosophy but a search 
after tiuth. Besides, the higher philosophy requires 
faith in its principle^ even though they be not per- 
fectly clear. This philosophy aims at proving what- 
ever is incomprehensible is false ! That is its grand 
maxim. It sneers at enthusiasm, at visions, at ghosts* 
The whole spiritual world is destroyed. The finer 
essence of the scul is denied. Matter and tangibilitj 



140 MODERN PHILOSOPHIES. 

are its darling points. The maintainers of this systeniy 
are in fact, infidels. They are not atheists nor skep- 
tics, avowedly: still, they are practically such, inas- 
much as they cry dow n all genius, all imagination, all 
creative invention, all high-raised fervour, (the gift of 
God.) l.]iey are, forsooth, above all such credulity.. 
Incredulity, however, is but a negative virtue. They 
are materialists, whatever they may call themselves. 
They must touch, and weigh, and handle, substance 
and matter. What they cannot manage in this man- 
ner, they spurn and condemn. They have no insight 
into the dark obscurities of inquiry, nor do they rise to 
high themes. They look along the dull plain of the com* 
monest reaUties. They dogmatize on the tritest texts. 

''They, say an undisputed thing, 
In such a solemn way." 

This is the grand end of tlieir system — admitting 
nothing as true and certain, which has not been 
demonstrated "ad nauseam" — they ring everlasting 
changes on the self-same tunes. This is the very 
opposite of the German school of transcendentalism. 
These two are the very antipodes of the philosophic 
world — Aristotle and Plato, modernized. Plato was 
only a Greek Kant, somewhat his superior (it must be 
confessed,) and greater (inasmuch as his original and 
nmster :) and Kant is but a reviver of Plato^ though 
without a tythe of his gorgeous imagination, and ut- 
terly deficient in that beauty of style, for which Plato 
was so famous. Both were mystics : both seekei^ after 
the right,, the true, the good, the beautiful. The Scotch 



MODERN PHILOSOPHIES. 141 

are rather, from the constitution of their minds, follow- 
ers of Aristotle. Not that they really copy him, but 
they have the same hard, careful sense : the same love 
of scientific formality : the same endeavours after sim- 
plicity and precision, which distinguish his writings, 
and philosophic teaching. The former are infinitely 
clearer and more readable, which is little praise : for 
Aristotle, is the most unreadable of writers. 

The Germans run into the opposite extreme of be- 
lieving only what every one else would pronounce 
incredible. They strive at too much. Still it is a 
noble crror^ in speculation. Their morality is (in most 
instances) of a high tone and presenting a lofty stand- 
ard. They are obscure, harsh, and even sometimes 
absurd in their terms ; and, in professing to have 
made discoveries. All that they have really good, they 
have got from the Greeks and from a spirit of eclecti- 
cism. Different from both of these is the spirit of the 
French philosophy : lax, voluptuous, sensual. It is well 
suited to the character of the nation and adapted to a 
revolutionary period. It first prompted and then in- 
creased, the spirit of the revolution. It fattened on it. 
It is a refined piece of nfaterialism. A most immoral 
morality. It has no claim to originality, despite their 
loud boast to that effect. Indeed, both the French 
and in great part the German philosophy, have arisen 
from a consideration of the defects in the philosophical 
systems and speculationsof English philosophers. They 
form the grand body of morahsts, and reasoners, and 
critics,, and speculative thinkers. Kant and Condillac 



142 MODERN PHILOSOPHIES'. 

have only modified the philosophy of Locke: the for- 
mer elevating it to a higher tone — the latter depre- 
ciating it hy gross perversion. The French have at 
all times been great plagiaries of English philosophy : 
but the English have never retaliated in this. What 
a noble list of true phUosophers can England furnish ! 
From Bacon to Hazlitt, what a briUiant band ! Let 
me repeat a few of the names only. Bacon, Cud- 
worth, Ilobbes, Barrow, South, Uerkley, Locke, Burke^ 
Paley, Butler^ HazlitL 

The caution, the wily care of the Scotch, the free, 
manly independence of the Germans, the elegant sub- 
tlety of the Greeks, the refined graces of the French, 
the lofty morality of the Romans, all find their repre- 
sentatives here. — Here is bold thought, exquisite style, 
nice analysis, deep reflection, brilliant speculation. 

This philosophy is tied down to no one sect or sys- 
tem ; it is called by no one name ; it is universal and 
free. It is not common sense, merely, nor transcend- 
entalism, nor sensualism. It is truly liberal, embracing 
the most opposite theories. It includes materialism 
and idealism, the antipodes of metaphysical folly. It 
asserts the dignity of man, and confirms the existence 
of his Maker. It pervades all science from theology to 
mechanics, and equally demonstrates a future state 
and the most trivial fact in natural philosophy. 

In a word, the Scotch is best suited for practical life ; 
the German, for spiritual men and poets,* the French, 
for men of pleasure and of the world ; and, the Englishj 
for philosophic men of basioess*. 



NO. XXV. 



A FEW WORDS ON THE VICES OF THE 
CLERICAL CHARACTER. 

We want another Dr. Eachard to discover for us 
the true sources of contempt in which the clergy are 
held. W^e need the '^picturesque satirical description 
of Mandeville" to paint the portraits of that venerable 
body. We have headed these scattered observations 
"A Few Words :" — A volume would not exhaust the 
subject. We glance merely at the principal heads. 

Divinity is too much regarded as a profession, a source 
of profit, a stepping-stone to reputation, an apology for 
sloth and indifference, something to fall back upon, 
what the French call " point cfappui,^^ a mere nomi- 
nal pursuit. 

Priests are essentially separatists. They wish to 
get out of the current of human sympathy. They are 
the most selfish of men. Preferring their own ease 
and comfort, before that of any body else, they will not 
leave off eating their dinner, to attend the sick bed of 
the dying. They are apart from the rest of the world 
— it matters not whether above or below it. Profess- 
edly humble, they in reality place themselves (as the 
vicegerents of Jehovah,) far above their fellow-men — 



144 THE VICES OF THE CLERICAL CHARACTER. 

the cloth patronise arrogance, as the main prop of their 
success. 

From being the spiritual director, the priest infers 
his right to be the secular adviser of his flock. Alas I 
there is a wolf among the lambs. To make and to 
meddle is a badge of all the tribe. He would not be a 
priest if he did not interfere. 

Hypocrisy and deceit compose the clerical character. 
What wonder, if, of all men the priest is most artful, 
since he has the hardest part to play ! 

Who has a higher relish for the intoxication of power 
and pride of place? Ecclesiastical ambition is prover- 
bial. There have been more Woolseys than Herberts. 
What, says the prince of poets, 

"Love, and meekness, Lord, 
Become a churchman, better than ambition ; 
Win straying souls with modesty again, 
Cast none away." 

Henry VIIL 

In what profession can one find so few gentlemen^ 
as in the Church ? Boorish behaviour seems to be con- 
sidered a mark of spiritual excellence. As if the more 
a man's thoughts are bent on heaven, the less care he 
should have of his deportment while on earth. On 
this principle, the most heartless worldling should be 
the most companionable man. And yet, we hear great 
talk of Christian courtesy. Undoubtedly, the noblest 
courtesy springs from the character which forms the 
purest Christian ; but as the world goes, among p?^o- 
fessing Christians there are fewer who comport them- 
selves with a decent propriety, than among the profane. 



THE VICES OF THE CLERICAL CHARACTER. 145 

But how should we expect a saint to condescend to 
play the part of a gentleman ? 

The priest and the placemen are alike, in one respect, 
at least. They both depend on popular favour. Both 
are obliged to court it, as their mistress. She exacts the 
most untiring homage. This makes them sycophants 
to the very core. 

The malice of a priest is most refined. He injures 
you always loith the intention of doing you a service. 
This is his universal plea. To the purity of such mo- 
tives, who can demur? 

What call is it the priest obeys but the call of avarice 
and ambition ? 

Yet, there have been Taylors, Herberts, Fenelons, 
Berkleys. All religionists are not pretenders. There 
are many meek spirits, followers of their Lord. But 
measured with the great mass, these number but few. 

As a sex there is a vast deal more of religion among 
women than men. It suits their character more ex- 
actly, which is purer, holier, simpler, than man's. The 
best Christian I know, is the lovehest"woman in the 
world. Where else but in the female form shall we 
find such constancy, fortitude, dignity, sweetness, love? 

The good country parson (Herbert's, for instance,) is 
the greatest of men. 

Sincere humility is, in fact, the highest virtue man 
can attain. 

Note. — Lest any misapprehension should arise from the sweeping 
generalities employed in the above, the writer requests the liberal 
construction of the reader. He could select not a few exceptions. 



146 THE VICES OF THE CLERICAL CHARACTlER. 

from the whole body of the clergy, to his strictures. He considers 
that respectable class, as men, and — fallible. Some, he is assured, 
have been the glories of human nature. It is their claim to infalli- 
bility, which impels him to depict defects, merely human. In a dark 
night, white objects stand out with a painful distinctness; so, con- 
versely, in the pure ermine of the clerical character, the least speck is 
clearly discernible. Nevertheless, much of what has been said and 
written, against the clergy as a body, is undeniably true. We take 
no delight in writing this. We fear the clown's definition of a priest 
is but too true. He compared a parson to a sign post, " Because," 
says he, ''he shows others the road, but never walks in it himself." 
With great good the clergy have, in all ages, done much harm. Look, 
only, at the wars, which ecclesiastical ambition, the lust of spiritual 
power, the pride of theologic lore, and of sectarian bigotry, have ex- 
cited, call to mind the martyrdom of good men, the abominable insti- 
tution of the Jesuits, the horrid cruelties of the Inquisition ! 

We would breathe not a word against the holy spirit of religion ! 
This is a feeling, however, of which those we depict are utterly igno- 
rant, " Having the form of godliness without the spirit thereof." To 
bring this long note to an end, we would ask the reader to turn to an 
old novel, Joseph Andrews, by Fielding, where he will find the char- 
acters of the Good and the Wicked Parson admirably delineated. Par- 
son Adams and TruUiber, will live for ever, as historically, as George 
Herbert and the vilest of the inquisitors. 



isro. XXVI 



ON PREACHING: 



IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND. 



My dear T. — 1 have frequently spoken to you on 
this subject, and promised to give you my views. I 
cannot claim any originality for them, but only present 
them to you, as confirmations of old doctrines. I am 
persuaded of their truth and justness, and that is the 
great thing. You have concluded on entering the 
Church, and I think (all things considered) wisely. 
'Tis a delicate office to assume, that of advising oq 
such a course ; but I make no question, that you will 
excuse any error of opinion, in the assurance of my 
sincerity and interest in your welfare. I shall offer to 
you a few general considerations ; after which, I will 
formally treat of the spirit of your doctrines, and the 
style, in which they ought to be presented to your 
hearers. 

The office of a Priest, I take to be the highest and 
holiest man can possibly sustain. He is a delegate 
from the Almighty, his representative and ambassador, 
and should be treated with respect and honour. To 
preserve the character worthy of this high office, is a 

matter of the nicest treatment. To be pure and pious 
13 



148 ON PREACHING. 

without being " puffed up with tabernacle gas" — to be 
severe on himself and merciful to others ; to restrain 
evil passions and encourage generous impulses, is the 
work of a true Christian philosopher. A higher aim or a 
nobler character than this, in its integrity, I know not. 

In my thoughts on the Vices of the Clerical Charac- 
ter, I have touched upon most of the failings incident 
to your profession, — here, I will enlarge a little on the 
virtues : in a good Priest, these are many, rich and rare. 
He has, in the first place, the benefit of a glorious and 
perfect model, that of the Son of God. An instance 
of humility, of sweetness, of humanity, of justice, of 
patience, of purity, of heavenly love, such as the world 
never saw before, nor ever can see the like of, again. 
A most humane and sympathizing friend, an elevating 
and cheering comforter, a most wise and liberal teacher, 
an unparalleled martyr, a Godlike orator, a complete 
philanthropist, an unerring judge of men. Besides 
this admirable model, he has for his peculiar legacy, 
the best of books, in every point of view — a book which 
for doctrine and thought, moral teaching, elevated poesy, 
simple yet affecting pathos, dignified yet unadorned 
sublimity, striking characters, apt illustrations, incon- 
trovertible arguments, is well worthy of its loftiest title : 
The Word of God. 

The virtues he should practise are of the most en- 
gaging character — universal love, charity, active com- 
passion, untiring yet sweetly-tempered zeal. He should 
be a friend to man, a neighbour in the sense of the 
good Samaritan, a helper, a defender, an adviser. The 



ON PREACHING. 149 

whole circle of the Christian graces should be included 
in his character. Tliere is scope for the loftiest and 
most energetic action, as well as for " a wise passive- 
ness," and an unresisting gentleness. 

All this is, however, nnatter of general reflection — to 
proceed more particularly to the subject of my letter. 
Preaching, is the part of your duties, to which I will 
direct your attention. And, first, let us consider the 
general nature of your discourses, as to the matter, and 
then as to the manner. 

As to the matter. It is astonishing to run over the 
variety of sermons, the logical, the learned, the contro- 
versial, the moral, the historical, the antiquarian, the 
declamatory, the flippant, the satirical, (fcc. &c. 

To be what is called a fashionable preacher, appears 
to me the most contemptible of all ambitions. 

Don't frighten your audience by long disquisitions 
on points of ecclesiastical history, indulge no controver- 
sial spirit, reason as little as possible, but speculate and 
persuade. It laj^s the foundations for skepticism to be 
over-anxious to prove every thing. Satire in the pulpit 
should be grave, dignified, severe, or not at all employ- 
ed. Light raillery is disgusting in a serious composi- 
tion. 

A moral discourse is the best kind for a continuance. 
An occasional evangelical sermon, in which the piety 
is sure, and where there is no over-acting of goodness, 
is very fit and proper. 

Never attempt to write pathetically, unless you feel 
strongly moved. Description should be concise, in the 



l&O ON PREACHING. 

pulpit. An allusion well brought in will often produce 
more effect than a hiojhly wrought and sustained pic- 
ture. Blair recominends what he calls characteristicai 
sermons, as Butler's '' on the Character of Balaam." 

Religious sentiments cannot be original, at this dis- 
tance of time from the first promulgation of Christian- 
ity, so don't avoid truth and sense, because it is com- 
mon. So is the air we breathe, and so is the Book 
"by which we live and die." Expression may, how- 
ever, be very choice and novel. Study that. 

As tO" style. The best, in the pulpit, is perfectly 
clear, simple^ and earnest. Strength and seriou&ness 
are the great qualities. Let it rather exhibit a labour- 
ed plainness, than a laboured eloquence. The greatest 
truths, like the richest gems, show best plain-set. The 
best character for a writer of sermons is Ben Jonson's 
character of Cartwright the dramatist, — " He (my 
son Cartwright) writes all, like a man." Joined to 
this manly sense,, let there be a liberal spirit of human- 
ity ; a sympathy with men,, as men — compassion and 
fellow-4"eeling^. 

Let suavity modify the rigour of your doctrines, and 
let a Christian feeling breathe over your whole spirit. 

As to the merely physical qualities of a preacher,— 
there is one most essential in the pulpit : a determined 
and fearless, but not insolent, enunciation. The Priest 
should speak as if afraid of the face of no man, yet 
kindly and even sweetly, if he can so modulate his 
voice. Gestures are comparatively unimportant. They 
should be first-rate or very rarely used. I love to see 



ON PREACHING. 151 

a speaker erect, open-eyed, and rather defying, than 
courting his audience. At the same time, towards 
some, you can use no instrument more powerful, than 
bland insinuation. A certain smoothness of manner 
assures one of the clear steadfastness of his belief Dr. 

W 1 is an exceedingly palatable preacher for 

this reason ; S is odious, for I he want of it. The 

very best manner is the seriously impressive one, — 
speaking as " one having authority." Your chief ob- 
ject is to induce religious sentiments, to beget a habit 
of serious reflection, to confirm the wavering penitent, 
to exhort the despairing sinner. Mercy and not rigour 
should mark the character of the Almighty in your 
discourses. Remember, 

" Behind a frowning providence, he hides a smiling face." 

The old divines afford an excellent school — but a 
knowledge of human nature is a still better. Seek to 
influence men, as men, in your sermons, and not as 
Christians or spiritual beings. It is necessary to use 
worldly means, to eflfect an heavenly end. 

Taylor is soft, flowing, musical, and richly pictur- 
esque ; but he is diffuse, w^eak, and immethodical. 
Barrow is nervous, close, weighty, full, he however is 
gritty, harsh and untunable. Butler is profound, but 
dry — Sherlock, elegant but not original. Others have 
their peculiar traits. South* is witty and grandly elo- 
quent, and Paley is plain and natural, but wants re- 

* South's Sermon on the text, " and God made man in his own 
image," is by far the most eloquent oration I ever read. It is highly 
conceived and nobly executed 

13t 



}62 ON PREACHING. 

finement and elevation. Tillotson is the dullest, and 
Berkley (in his other writings) the most graceful. 

At the present day, T think Dr. Channing a first- 
rate preacher ; elevated, noble, manly — a master of 
expression, and a man of true liberality. Of extempo- 
raneous brilliant speakers. Dr. Hawks is the most emi- 
nent, but a dangerous model. Peihaps it is best to 
have no rrodel ; for one is as likely to copy defects, as 
well as beauties. A thorough acquaintance with the 
old divines, however, will fill your mind, enliven your 
fency, and expand your capacity for reflection. 

Your tone of character is meditative, rather than 
stirring. Indulge it. Let your sermons be the off- 
spring of your reflection, and not the produce of your 
imagination. I have,^ briefly, included in these few 
pages, all 1 had to say. That you may greatly dis- 
tance any landmarks which, any caption or advice of 
mine might prescribe, is the prayer and desire of your 
Aifectioaate friend^ 



NO. XXVII. 



SUNDAY IN THE CITY. 



A SKETCH. 



It is Sunday. The season — midsummer; the 
place — the very heart of a great city. Let me sit down 
quietl}^ by my open window, and as I gaze on the 
quiet and ahnost deserted street below, indulge the 
train of reflection which naturally rises in my mind. 
What a holy calm-diffusing is the spirit of religion. 
All around is peace and sweetness — the eloquence of 
silence fills the whole scene with a grave and solemn 
dignity. It is God's holy day ; and what more irre- 
fragable proof could the religious inquirer demand of 
its sanctity, than the universal obedience with which 
the law relating to it is observed, and the great moral 
impression it so powerfully enforces. 

On this day the goodness, the wisdom, the power 
of the Almighty shines forth with peculiar lustre ; for 
on no other day do we give the same contemplation 
to his grand attributes. On this day God ended his 
glorious work of the creation, and Christ rose from 
the dead. On this day, at the moment of my writing 
this, thousands of winged spirits are parting from these 
fleshly tabernacles, for a more enduring and celestial 
mansion. On this day, methinks a good man would 



154 SUNDAY IN THE CITT, 

most joyfully die, for the peacefulness of earth would 
be some slight preparative for the eternal rest of heaven. 

A pure, clear sky overspreads our gross planet, and 
the ardent sun reveals his fiery flames. The streets 
are clean and well ordered, an humble similitude of 
the New Jerusalem — where piety and peace are met 
together this d-^y, let the dwelling be ever so humble 
so long as it is sweet and clean, let the assembly be 
dressed e^^ -r so meanly, if neat and orderly, let the 
preacher be no inspired orator, but merely a human 
speaker, and there is a heaven on earth. This world 
includes no higher share of happiness. A delightful 
characteristic of Sunday is the repose it brings, more 
especially to the manual labourer. He is on this day a 
man, a child of God, if a true Christian. He can own 
no master save his divine Master, and his only work 
is to do his will. Would the wisdom of man, think 
you, ever have devised any thing like this ? Would 
the rapacious usurer, the exacting task-master, the 
drudge of business have allowed a cessation of busi- 
ness for one day in seven ? 1 fear not. 

We might pursue this train of reflection, but modesty 
will not allow us to do so, when we have Herbert^s 
sweet poem at hand. Holy George Herbert, well didst 
thou deserve the epithet ! We cannot do the reader 
a better service than by transcribing these admirable 
verses. 

SUNDAY. 

Oh day most clear, most bright, 
The fruit of this, the next world's bud, 
The indorsement of supreme delight. 



SUNDAY m THE CITY. 155 

Writ by a friend, and with his blood ; 
The couch of time ; care's balm and bay ; 
The week were dark, but for thy light : 
Thy torch doth show the way. 

The other days and thou 
Make up one mm ; whose face thou art, 
Knockiu'^ at heaven with thy brow: 
The working days are the back part ; 
The burden of the week lies there, 
Making the whole to stoop and haw. 

Till thy release appear. 

Man had straight forward gone 
To endless death ; but thou dost pull 
And turn us round to look on one, 
Whom, if we were not very dull. 
We could nut choose but look on still ; 
Since there is no place so alone 

The which he doth not fill. 

Sundays the pillars are. 
On which heaven's palace arched lies : 
The other days fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities. 
They are the fruitful beds and btirders 
In God's rich garden : that is bare 

Which parts their ranks and orders. 

The Sundays of man^s life, 
Threaded together on time's stringy 
Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternal glorious King. 
On Sunday heaven's gate stand ope j 
Blessings are plentiful and rife, 

More plentiful than hope. 

This day my Saviour rose, 
And did enclose this light for his : 
That, as each beast his manger knows, 
Man might not of his fodder miss. 
Christ hath took in this piece of ground. 
And made a garden there for those 

Who want herbs for their wound,. 



156 SUNDAY IN THE CITY. 

The rest of our Creation 
Our great Redeemer did remove, 
With the same shake, which at his passion 
Did the earth and all thini^s with it move. 
As Samson bore the doors away, 
Christ's hand, thoup:h nail'd, wrought our salvation, 

And did unhinge that day. 

The brightness of that day 
We sullied by our foul ofTence; 
Wherefore that robe we cast away, 
Having a new at his expense, 
Whose drops of blood paid the full price, 
That was required to make us gay, 

And fit for Paradise. 

Thou art a day of mirth ; 
And where the week days trail on ground. 
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth, 
let me take thee at the bound, 
Leaping with thee from seven to seven. 
Till that we both, being toss'd fVom earth, 

Fly hand in hand to heaven ! 



NO. XXVIII. 

ON THE STUDY OF HISTORY. 

[IN A LETTER.] 

My Dear G. — The time you have free from college 
duties should be devoted to reading. And amongst your 
various fields of reading, you will find history, one of the 
most useful, and certainly not the least entertaining. 
It will be the object of this letter to endeavour at show- 
ing you, that it merits this eulogy. A few words, how- 
ever, as to the time of life at which history may be read 
to the greatest advantage. I think you are at the age at 
which all history, save that of philosophy, of literature 
and religion, may be most profitably looked into and 
studied. You are young, and youth is the right period 
for collecting facts of every description. A few years 
hence, your mind may be better employed in investi- 
gating opinions and settling principles, in observation, 
and in the study of other sources of knowledge, than 
books only can afford. 

While a mere boy, the merest compendiums of his- 
tory should be studied, the epitomators, such as Keigh- 
ley — these, however, should be rigidly accurate and 
perfectly clear. When you have mastered these, you 
should proceed to the more romantic periods of ancient 



158 ON THE STUDY OF HISTORY. 

history, as delineated by the original classic authors, 
and in the compendiums of the ablest modern philoso- 
phic compilers ; as, for instance, Heeren and Muller. 
Then, the history of the middle ages, in the elaborate 
volumes of Gibbon and Hallam, should engage your 
attention, and lastly, modern history should be fully 
and minutely read and studied. 

The most important periods in modern history, to us, 
are the Reformation, the Age of Louis Ouartorze, the 
English Revolution, our own glorious Freedom from 
the tyranny of Britain, and the French Revolution. I 
shall not, nor indeed could I, in a mere letter, specify 
all and every thing to be read. My concern is, with the 
general spirit of history, its value, its interest. 

And first, of its uses. — The general aim of history is 
hke that of travel, to expand and liberalize the mind, 
by presenting to it, a multipUcity of examples and a 
great variety of facts. This affords the best antidote 
to national and individual prejudice, by giving, as it 
were, the comparative anatomy of the vices and vir- 
tues, of civilized society. It displays the real heinous- 
ness of war and the littleness of the world's heroes. It 
divests them of all their undeserved glory. If you 
would like to see this idea most admirably analyzed 
and illustrated, just turn to Dr. Channing's late lecture 
on war. In that masterpiece of true philosophy and 
dignified eloquence, you will find depicted with an 
unerring hand the evils and the horrors of war ; its 
folly, its cruelty, its criminality. From it, is there torn 
away all the disguises of romance, of imagination and 



bl^ THE STUDY OF HISTORV. 159 

of poetry, and it is laid bare as a crying sin and an 
accursed thing. 

It is no more than justice to remark, however, that 
history does not present such features always. There 
is a fair side to the picture, pleasant spots for the eye to 
rest on. There are beautiful as well as terrible views. 
The interest they excite is not always, that derived from 
horror, anxiety, and fear. We have objects of a^hnira- 
tion, of respect, of love. 'Tis the pnwince of history to 
narrate with equal fidelity, to paint with equal felicity, 
the good as well as the evil deeds of men. 'Tis hers to 
award both praise and censure. She has in her cata- 
logue an Antoninus as well as a Nero: and can point 
to a Vespasian as well as a Caligula. 

In itself, merely, history is a study of no value. A 
bare record of facts and a list of names, determining 
no principle, illustrating no theory, and tending to no- 
thing good or great in speculation or action — is worth- 
less. But in connexion with morality, with religion, 
and with policy, it is extremely valuable. Its value, 
therefore, is incidental and contingent. What boots it 
to know that Socrates ever lived, but that we are 
gainers by his excellent precepts of wisdom and virtue? 
An account of the battle of Thermopylee is valuable 
only as a grand testimony to the existence of patriot- 
ism and undaunted bravery. The French Revolution 
displayed in its excesses better than any logician could 
demonstrate, the licentious teaching of the French phi- 
losophy and the instability of the French chaiacter. 
And so in a thousand instances. History, in a word, 

14 



160 ON THE STUDY OF HISTORY. 

is morality and public policy illustrated. 'Tis a com- 
ment on the features of human nature displayed by a 
nation. 'Tis the study of character in masses and at 
full length. A study for statesmen and all true stu- 
dents of the human heart, on a large scale. The 
philosophy of history, then, should be our grand object. 
A mere chronicle, for the most part, of battles and 
sieges, of massacres and seditions, of conspiracy and 
civil commotion, without philosophy or reflection, is of 
less value than the wildest romance. 'Tis the philoso- 
pher and reasoner alone, who can educe the logical 
connexion of events, causes, and effects ; who can pen- 
etrate motives, dissect characters, paint sentiments, and 
elicit truths. 'Tis the reflective soul only, that inspires 
a life and meaning into the scattered memorials, and 
makes the dumb pages speak with an earnest fideHty. 

The great men of history are seldom truly great. 
They are great villains, great schemers, great cheats? 
much oftener. They are military or political :— but 
the philosopher and the poet, the two highest types 
of intellectual greatness, are little heard of in civil his- 
tory. Kings are generally fools or idiots ; if they are 
worth any thing, their subjects depose or kill them. 
Few have been men of ability and popular favourites, 
at the same time. Where they have been great, they 
have reigned paramount. We find few true patriots, 
and a patriot-king is a poetical chimera. 

As for the interest of history, that may be very briefly 
stated. It has the interest of truth and reality. The 
old maxim of truth being stranger than fiction, is one 



ON THE STUDY OF HISTORY. 161 

of the best settled truths we possess. It has been set- 
tled a thousand times, and we have daily proof of its 
genuineness. There are no scenes in romance more 
captivating, than the touching incidents in the lives 
of Mary of Scotland and Cliarles I. of England. Fic- 
tion has few characters, one-half so attractive as Henry 
IV. of France and Francis I. of the same country, and 
none nobler than Bayard and Sidney. The Sicilian 
vespers and the massacre of St. Bartholomew, surpass 
all pictures of horror and tales of blood. The short 
reign of Massaniello is almost equal to a fairy tale, and 
the whole career of Napoleon was startling, original, 
and grand. Characters in real life are, after all, far 
better than their rivals on the pages of the novelist. 
In truth, reality is the ground of the writer of fiction. 
Paradoxical as it may appear, we invent from know- 
ledge.* Let a man read Defoe's History of the Plague, 
(half history and half fiction,) or De Grammont's Me- 
moirs, or Hume's Narrative of the Protestants, or Gib- 
bon's Chapter on Mahomet, and he will care little for 
the mosi enticing novels in comparison. The fact is, 
we take a real delight in truth — the mind must rest 
in certainty — we must, finally, be anchored in facts. 

* Any one who has studied literary history with attention, will 
acknowledge the force of this remark. The finest writers of fiction 
have drawn from ther own stores of observation and eeneral know- 
ledge, rather than from bare invention. Their wittiest sayings, their 
most pathetic incidents, the most laughable scenes, the wildest adven- 
tures and most romantic enterprises, have been transferred from real 
scenes. To be sure, the process of idealization has been gone through 
with. The power of combining anew, of selection and grouping, is 
theirs. But the material, is from Natures bounteous hand : to nothing 
else, if not to this, can we ascribe the wonderful naturalness of the old 
dramatists, of the old novelists, and of the Prince of poets. 



162 ON THE STUDY OF HrSTORr, 

These may be of a finer nature, a purer essence, than- 
most men accumulate. We mean facts in philosophy 
and in the science of human nature, as well as, and 
more particularly, than facts of a coarser kind and of a 
more common nature. 

I will conclude this letter with a fe^v general remarks. 
In history, we reason by analogy and prove by com- 
parison. This is the only way. 

To him, who reads aright, the history of philosophy. 
of the arts, of literature and of manners, is much fuller 
of instruction; certainly fuller of interest than, merely, 
civil, political, or ecclesiastical history. 

There is great monotony in general history, and 
much of it may be passed over to great advantage. 
'Tis something gained, not to learn, what is useless or 
what must, at some future period be unlearnt. Boling- 
broke has, in his Letters on the Study of History, some 
sensible remarks on this head. A nicety of selection 
must be employed. No one should read elegant or 
profound historians, for this reason, until his judgment 
be pretty clear. Many, even, are quite unimportant. 

Some monarchs, according to Voltaire, have lived 
only to mark the epoches. Happy the nation, whose 
princes are so inoffensively prominent ! In history we 
may study little but well, read much, but with selection, 
and dip into a great deal, of which we retain very gen- 
eral impressions. 

A vast deal of the best historical lore, is to be gather- 
ed from collateral and contemporary sources ; such as 
comedies, old ballads, sermons, novels, state papers^. 



ON THE STUDY OF HISTORY. 163 

private letters, diaries, journals, speeches, <kc. Each 
of these kinds of writing has at ditTerent times been 
made the veiiicle for satire on the times, for pictures of 
existing manners, for the embodiment of peculiarities 
in cliaracter, and for the developement of individual or 
national traits. They mark, by their style, their tone 
of sentiment and turn of thinking, the period that pro- 
duced them. They are stamped by the spirit of the 
age. Numerous illustrations might be offered of this 
position. Thus, we find nowhere more admirably 
painted the vices of tlie court of Charles II. than in 
the comedies of Etheredg ', Wycherly, Congreve, Van- 
burgh, Gibber, and Farquhar. The old ballads let us 
into the more familiar secrets of daily life in England 
in the days of " Good Queen Hess,'' and earlier yet. 
The balad of the " Old and Young Courtier," and of 
the "Old English Gentleman," are far belter than the 
polished rhetoric of a later compiler ; the sermons 
preached just before and after the Restoration ; the 
novels of Fielding, the diaries of Evelyn and Pepys, 
the letters of Pope and his friends, <fcc., give us a rare 
insight into the opinions of the day and the current 
practices of the time. 

Modern history is, perhaps, the most useful; ancient, 
is certainly the least veracious. The fabulous air of 
ancient story is its chief attraction. The poetical sup- 
plants, here, the political. Need we seek to dispel 
the floating clouds of tradition 1 Have we not suffi- 
cient authentic history, for all useful purposes ? If so^ 
let us leave a little to the imagination. 

ut 



164 ON THE STUDY OF HISTORY*. 

The best histories are written in a natural, easyj. 
simple style. Hume is, perhaps, the best English his- 
torian, in point of style, and Gibbon the worst. 

There is such a thing,^ as being too profound, ovcf- 
wise, and seeing mysteries in simple matters. This is. 
the curse of philosophic pedantry. 

Too great devotion to style in a narrator, discovers 
an indifference to his matter and reasonings. 

No genius is requisite for historical investigation nor 
historical writing : but, candor, sense, knowledge, and 
breadth of views. 

There is as much difference between an original 
writer and a compiler, as between a fine original and 
the best copy. 

We might enter into the question of the relative im- 
portance of history and biography, but I have already 
(I fear) tired you, with these "^wise saws and modern 
instances." I might prolong the subject, but must 

stop. 

Your Friend, 



NO. XXIX. 



SOME QUERIES REGARDING NATURAL 
AFFECTION. 

" There are many who live merely to hinder happiness, and whose 
descendants can only tell of long life, that it produces suspicion, malig- 
nity, peevishness, and persecution ; and yet even these tyrants can 
talk of the ingratitude of the age, curse their heirs for impatience, and 
wonder that young men cannot take pleasure in their father's com- 
pany." — Johnson. 



" the near in blood, 



The nea?er bloody." — Shakspeare. 

" It is easy by experience to be discerned, that this natural 

aifection, to which we give so great authority, has but a very weak 
and shallow root." — Montaigne. 

May not what we call natural 'aflfection, be any 
thing more than the result of a habit of close inter- 
course ? 

Would two brothers (separated from their earliest 
childhood), who met in after life, recognize each other 
by the force of blood? J)r. Franklin's case in regard 
to his mother, who is commonly supposed to cherish 
much more affection than any other relation, is rather 
against it. 

Who hate each other most bitterly^ relatives or 
strangers ? 

With which, of the two, have we most disputes and 
trouble 1 



166 QUERIES REGARDING NATURAL AFFECTION* 

What is the state of feeUng between fathers and 
sons, when the latter become men 7 

Who perk more advice into our faces, insult us 
more ignobly, or asssist us least, when we most need 
aid? 

And yet — Towards whom does our blood warm 
quickest 1 To a stranger J 

Whom would we soonest help? 

Is there not ^family interest 7 

Is resemblance in features, form, voice, smile, frown, 
gait, and general manner, nothing ? Are tastes and 
feelings in common, nothing ? Are strongly marked 
hereditary traits, nothing? Are not famdy-quarrels^ 
even, bonds of attachment? Are woi family -secrets 
powerful chains of connexion ? 

Here are both sides of this delicate question — one 
will incline to or decide in favour of either of them, 
rather from his feelings than judgment. Having been 
happily or unfortunately situated, will determine his 
opinion. This is one of those subjects, which reason- 
ing only confuses, and to understand which (as far as 
it can bs understood) we must draw upon our personal 
experience. 



NO. XXX. 



PRINCIPLE AND FEELING. 

A PHILOSOPHICAL RHAPSODY. 

Few themes so trite as this, in few is so much 
taken for granted, in none greater injustice done to the 
cause of truth. A few pages may not idly, then, be 
filled in noting sonie distinctions, between these two, 
and by some natural reflections arising therefrom. 
The ancient schools of Greece are not wholly lost — we 
have them still, under new names and in modern 
times. They exist now. The man of severe prin- 
ciple is still a Stoic ; the man of milder nature, is still 
the Epicurean. There have been ancient and there 
are modern, Harleys. The man of feeling is the 
sweetest ensample of true hiimnnity. It must be con- 
fessed, that, the former is more inclined to run into 
rigidity and inhumanity ; it is no less true, however, 
that the latter has a tendency to laxity and licentious- 
ness. Between these two, is a great gulf fixed ; a gulf 
formed by nature's own creative hand. The model- 
virtue of the first is Justice including Mercy ; of the 
last is Mercy not excluding Justice, if both are compati- 
ble. In tunes of public excitement, the iron sword oC 



168 PRINCIPLE AND FEELING. 

justice, is essential ; but, ever is the sweet voice of hu- 
manity, ravishing to the ears of the man. 

We should remark one philosophical fact, however, 
before going further, and it is much on the side of the 
man of feeling. It is this, that it is impossible to reason 
concerning our finer emotions and sentiments, with 
chance of logical success. For, these are, evanescent 
and mutable as the air, "a chartered libertine," and like 
the lambent flame, encircling as did that glorious 
halo, the precious head of the Son of Gon. Principle, 
on the other hand, is of a robust character, and of a 
more palpable nature. Principle may be likened to a 
stone table of the law ; but, feeling may be best com- 
pared, to the warm beating heart and its genuine im- 
pulses. In many cases, our hearts are far better casu- 
ists, than our heads, and on all the grand points of 
truth, honesty, right, and virtue, they admit of no com- 
parison. Out of the heart come all the issues of life. 
A tender heart and a weak head, are often confounded, 
as synonomous. But, by whom ? By the hard, cal- 
culating worldling, the keen, selfish politician, the 
grasping, avaricious idoiator of mammon. 

We frequently hear it said that principle should be 
our only guide, and that, we should give no heed to 
(if not utterly root out) the impulses of our hearts. But 
is there not something above principle ? Act beatified 
spirits, from that alone ? Not rather, from an impulse 
of Divine love, a joy intuitive and celestial ? And, sa 
with men. The love of virtue is, surely, a nobler in- 
centive than the fear of punishment. Principle im- 



PRINCIPLE AND FEELING. 169 

plies the latter, a reward being its object. Who are 
they, we would ask, so severe in principle, so virtuous 
by rule '^ Why, the powerful, the mighty, the rich, 
the greatest hypocrites. These can afford to be desti- 
tute of bowels of compassion. Besides, it is much 
easier, to wear a severe look and a mortified expression, 
that to act the part of a philanthropist and the good 
Samaritan. Selfis'j men act on princb^Ie ; i. e. on a 
selfish principle. That, is a profitable cv.urse. 

All men of principle, who declare themselves as act- 
ing without feeling, act merely from a verbal proposi- 
tion. As, thus, one acts from habit, according to pre- 
scribed maxims. He acts from precept, but what is a 
precept but a lifeless proposition. Example and feel- 
ing give it a soul ; action, alone can inspire a life into 
it. Yet further, his principles may be false, untrue, 
illogical. He may have been, as is often the case, 
browbeaten by the reasonings of more sophistical heads. 
His principles, then, are directly hurtful. They pos- 
sess a character, by no means nugatory. Ignorance, 
then, is his only true plea. 

Nor should many acting from right principle, claim 
any vast praise, therefor, since they have no desire to 
act otherwise. Their goodness and rectitude is no 
further praiseworthy, than the chastity of a woman of 
cold constitution, or the honesty of a rich fool. Their 
virtues are entirely of a negative character. 

Let us examine, however, the internal nature of 
these two opposite incentives to goodness. 

Principles, are habits of opinion and rules of conduct. 



llfO PRINCIPLE AND FEELI?Nf(J. 

We may think or speculate upon them, as intellect 
tual problems. The germs of virtue are the noble im- 
pulses of the heart. There is a fine mixture of these 
two, which may arise in this way. These delicate 
"impulses of soul and sense," may become fixed by 
custom and result in perfect laws. This is rare; since 
most men of principle seek no basis of moral action in 
the heart. Impulse, is heaven-born ; pure, at first, 
though it may become tarnished and corrupt. This 
must be felt, not proved ; being one of those intuitive 
truths, of which we are perfectly well aware, though 
we cannot prove it, to demonstration. Our noblest 
virtues are only noble instincts. This is not meant to 
deny man's responsibility, for his duty is clear. But 
instincts were planted by a master-hand. 

It is a great error in our divines, generally, to insist 
so impressively, on the corrupt nature of man, to the 
exclusion of any eulogium of the magnificent frag- 
ments of divinity, still extant in the choicest specimens 
of human nature. Man is fallen, but not crushed. 
He can yet exhibit a faded brilliancy, of powers once 
resplendent. And, therefore, might not encouragement 
and exhortation avail more than censure ; and glory 
be made more effective than dishonour? 

Benevolence is scouted by the disciplinarians, as in- 
firmity of moral purpose. Correction is still enjoined 
as a duty — as if to punish some were enough, without 
pity and without aid, to others who deserve no punish- 
ment ; besides, even the worst, deserve compassion, 
and all deserve to be treated as men. No degradation 



4^. 



PRINCIPLE AND FEELING. 171 

is sufficient to extinguish the spark of Divinity, within 
us. Man, in every state and in the lowest condition, 
is still a man. These " unco guid" would make this 
world a prison, and stifle the free air of liberty, till we 
were choked into an insensibihty to oppression and 
wrong. 

It must be confessed from this, that, with a great 
part of the soul of man, ethics is but shghtly conver- 
sant. He who despises human weaknesses, can have 
little fellowship with human virtues, since the most 
endearing of the latter are separated by very thin par- 
titions from the former. The true philosophic charac- 
ter enjoins severity on his own conduct, and a liberal 
charity towards that of others. A man of principle 
may act very correctly in regard to himself, but he may 
act very inhumanly towards others. He may not 
raise a fallen brother, nor lead a truant fellow-creature 
back, whence he has strayed. He thinks he performs 
all his duty, if he abstains from any open violations of 
it ; but as for doing, what he thinks he is not bound 
to do, there he ceases to act. Yoluntary kindness, 
spontaneous charity, are not in his catalogue of virtues. 
Oh ! he that knows frail humanity, will confess that 
the occasions are not few, when a generous impulse is 
worth an army of principles. 

Logical men are men of principle ; poets, invariably, 
men of feehng. The reason is plain, the first act from 
their heads — the last, from their hearts. 

Still, though virtue, truth and goodness are essences, 
immutable and eternal, innate and never-dying : few 

15 



172 PRINCIPLE AND FEELING. 

will SO sufficiently cultivate and manifest thenij as to 
demonstrate their real existence, independent of modes 
of thinking and general custom. 

Virtue is not mere expediency ; goodness, a habit ; 
nor truth, conventional belief. Merit is certain, moral 
excellence is real ; and .yet, our best deeds, our finest 
thoughts, our purest feelings, our highest aspirations, 
are involuntary. 

We follow the bent of our natural temperament 
in spite of ourselves. This will unravel many moral 
paradoxes, otherwise inexplicable. Our intellects have 
little power over our minds and hearts. To act well, 
we must feel honestly, — a true heart makes a true 
man ; but, a mere prater of maxims, is an impertinent 
fool. 

" These moral writers," shrewdly observes one, in a 
pleasant comedy of Steele's, " never practise virtue till 
after death." Before, they have enough to do, to talk 
about it. 



NO. XXXI, 



SYMPATHY. 



A FRAGMENT. 



No man can possibly live without some species of 
sympathy, for any length of time. 

Our sympathy is usually strongest, either with those 
most like or most unlike ourselves. 

'Tis frequently limited to those of the same profes- 
sion or station in life. An acute lawyer can scarcely 
reciprocate the feelings of a fine landscape painter. 
Could Sir Edward Coke and Claude have been, by 
any possibility, intimate associates ? 

Dull and malicious minds underrate and cry down 
men of genius from a poverty of imagination. They 
have no fellow-feeling with them, and cannot under- 
stand them, for their very life, so will they cry. 

Literary partnerships are, of all others, the most de- 
lightful. 

Communion with great minds, goes far to elevate an 
inferior intellect. 

Forced sympathies are unnatural, (practical para- 
doxes.) 



174 SYMPATHY, 



Those sympathies which knit hearts most firmly, 
are often unseen and hidden. 

Men of letters and lovers, sympathize more deeply 
and earnestly than any other two classes of men. 



FINIS 







.0 o 



• 1 
\0 o. 



"X 









.-^^ 



.■''^" 










^ ..^' 



1 --» 

A V' 






-bo^ 









> ^ .0 



.^^^. 




V v^ 



\^ <?• 










.'^ -'^" 






y 

' H . 






% 






a'^ .v.b 






%^ % 







' ,<>' 



